


The Ivy of the Burning Winter

by mktellstales



Series: The Undying Winter [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Drama, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Forbidden Love, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:57:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 32,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2251551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, wealthy heir to a Victorian London bankers fortune, is engaged to Irene Adler' it's a marriage of convenience for him, and love for her. Then, Sherlock meets John Watson, and nothing is ever the same again in Sherlock's life as he falls in love with the man behind the green mask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Only Flames

**Author's Note:**

> Another collaboration! We just love working with each other, and absolutely had to write this fic together!
> 
> If you like it, please leave a kudos. If you love it, please a comment! We can only motivate each other so much; sometimes we need a little outside push!  
> -mk

Sherlock paced back and forth in the pale blue hallway, the heels of his shining leather shoes scraping against the Persian rug that lied on the hardwood floor. It once was lustrous; royal blue, and white and gold with intricate hand stitching, but now it was almost threadbare, a shell off the beautiful thing it once was. The rug was much like how everything else in the Adler home had become; much like the woman he was waiting on would become if he hadn't agreed to marry her.

He checked the watch tucked away in his vest, and sighed as he clutched it in his fist. He rapped his knuckles against the bedroom door, much more politely than he had wanted to.

"Irene, we are going to be late to our own party. Do you think that you could hurry up?"

"I'm almost ready, love." Her voice; controlled and rich, just the way she was brought up, floated under the crack in the door. 

He shoved the watch back into his pocket, and adjusted the cuff links in his sleeve. The engagement party was not his idea, nor was it Irene' s, but she certainly was excited at the idea of slipping into a new dress and a pair of shoes. The idea had sprung from his own mother,  whom really should have known better. Sherlock was a man of science, not of masquerades and cocktails, but his mother couldn't pass up any opportunity to show off her wealth, and her generous hospitality, never mind that she was hosting a wedding on the Estate just near Christmas in only three months time.

He checked his watch again, and knocked again, this time in a way that reflected his ever growing cantankerous mood.

"Irene!"

The door opened, and Irene's shining face came out. She pressed her fingers, nails lacquered in red, against his cheek, and kissed just above the one that wore her brilliant diamond ring. Sherlock pulled his face away with a wrinkle of his nose and a grimace. 

She laughed, and stepped back. She lifted up the red satin of her skirt, showing off black lace and more satin and the curves of her feet. 

"Well, what do you think?" She asked.

"How much did this cost me?" 

"Much less than I'm worth, I assure you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, big nodded his head in agreement with her anyway. She placed her hands on his shoulders, and smoothed down the black sleeves on his arms, stopping to pick off long, red hairs that belonged to neither herself or to him.

"You had the dog with you while you were dressing, didn't you?" She asked.

"No. I did not. I simply sat with Redbeard before I left."

Irene made a frustrated noise within her throat that clashed with the perfect red paint on her lips and the flawless dark curls she had spent hours tucking away. 

"When we are married, and have a home of our own, I don't want him in the house." 

"Yes, I know. Dogs are dirty, and they belong outside with the rest of the animals. Now, are you quite ready to go or am I too attend our engagement party without you, because I absolutely will. In fact, I might prefer it that way."

Oh, calm down Sherlock." She gave a quick peck to his lips, and reached to the small table next to her in the hallway, and picked up two masks. She held one out to Sherlock, and kept another in her hands. "I'll do yours if you do mine." She said.

Sherlock turned Irene around by her shoulders, proactively bare, and reached over her to place the mask against her face. It was heavy; painted entirely in gold with diamond dust at the edge near her hairline and throughout the script then ran over the forehead and down to her nose, and it covered the entire top half of her face. Sherlock slid the ribbons against one another, tying several knots and then leaving a bow against her hair. 

When she turned to face him, he had already turned around, and was waiting. Sherlock felt her arms hovering over him, and then felt the cool glass of the mask cover his eyes, and rest against the bones of his cheek. 

Sherlock had only one masquerade mask, made for him by his grandmother shortly before she died when he was twenty three. It was a rich red from the arches of his eyebrows to his nose, and the entire thing was rimmed with an intricate pattern of gold. Over his cheeks, there were the notes to his favorite symphony painted over a faded ivory, and beautiful gold scrolls made their way to the center of the mask from each corner.

He felt Irene's knuckles hit against the back of his head as she tied the black ribbons together, and when she was done, she walked around to the front of him rather than turning him back toward her.

"You look very handsome, Sherlock. "

"You're rather beautiful yourself, tonight." Sherlock, feeling charming before he needed to, extended his arm to her, and patted his hand against hers when she hooked her arm with his, and rested her hand on his wrist.

Downstairs and outside there was a car waiting for them; black and shining underneath the street lanterns, thin tires and heavy metal spokes. Sherlock opened the door and gently held onto Irene as she climbed in against the soft, black leather interior, and he soon followed. The driver in the front waited until the couple situated themselves and then started to make his way out of the city. 

Sherlock watched London pass them by, and he was certain that there was no place on Earth that could be as beautiful as this city. His brother had talked about taking one of the ships to New York City, had told Sherlock that someplace new and exciting might be good for him as well, but Sherlock loved London; he would never leave it. Though, he would be the first to wave Mycroft goodbye.

The city had disappeared, and gave way to open country. Only a few minutes more and the Holmes Estate crept up on them, the manor shining like a bright beacon in the dark of the night. The car turned into the long driveway and pulled up in the circle. He opened the door, and let Irene and Sherlock out.

The home where Sherlock grew up, and subsequently where he would continue to live until his marriage with Irene had taken place ,was smaller than most in the city gossiped that it was, but it was still quite grand; made of sandy brick and red cobbles. And really, the best part was the garden. Exotic flowers mingled with native ones and tall grasses; green, rust and purple vines twisted up the exterior walls of the home, making it seem as though the manor was merely decoration. There was a gazebo, white and brand new in the center of the yard, hidden by old, weeping trees, and just a small walk from there, was a pond with fish that would nibble at your toes if your stuck feet in. 

The inside, however, made up for the unassuming nature of the exterior. Everything was rich mahogany, and gold and ivory. The walls were painted in the most luxurious shades of pastel, and the furniture had all been made by Sherlock’s Uncle; it was ornate and sometimes a bit ostentatious. 

There were many rooms for Sherlock to have gotten lost in when he was a child; the library, and the music room being among the two he spent most of his time in; those, and Mycroft’s study, where he used to hide underneath the desk, and wait for his older brother to come in. Most times Sherlock would fall asleep under there, Redbeard on his lap, and Mycroft would have to slide him out and carry him into his bedroom. 

With their arms hooked together once more, Sherlock opened the door to the manor. It was rather quiet in the front room; just a few of the staff milling about. He was glad no one was there to greet them. They walked through the front room, down a long hallway, and into the ballroom in the back of the house. There, it was hectic with music, and the bustling of people dancing and chatting. The room was painted a lovely shade of spring blue, and trimmed with white pattern, and crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. There were pillars every meter of heavy stone marble. The pair was immediately assaulted by Mrs. Holmes, bright and cheerful in a royal purple dress with a silver mask over her eyes. 

“Sherlock.” She said, fussing over his vest, red to match the satin of Irene’s dress, and pulling at the tails of his coat.

He made an attempt to bat her hand away, but there was no stopping Elizabeth Holmes when she started to make a fuss over her children.

“Mummy, please.” He said.

“I’m just straightening you out is all; You may be handsome Sherlock, but you were always a little crumpled.”

Irene laughed, “He does clean up well, though, doesn’t he?” She asked, placing a hand over his chest, and letting it fall away in amusement.

“Like his father.” Mrs. Holmes added.

“Are you two quite done now? How is a man supposed to deal with a mother and a wife?” Sherlock straightened out his vest on his own accord this time, and leaned over with a smile to place a peck of his lips on his mother’s cheek, and then another on Irene’s cheek.

Both women smiled, and shared a conspiratorial laugh. Irene touched his chest once again. She was always touching him, likely because Sherlock was always refusing to take her to bed, despite her promises that she would know exactly what he would like. But Irene and her family already had enough disgrace brought to them with the loss of her Father’s money. Sherlock didn’t need to taint her image as a virtuous woman as well.

“Sherlock.” Irene’s voice cut through the small space between them like a knife through a honeycomb, “Could you bring me some champagne, and then we can dance?”

“Yes, of course.” He slipped away from her, “Wait here for me.” He said, gently pressing his lips against hers, and weaving through the people, keeping his head down in hopes that no one would know who it was underneath the mask. 

He made his way to the bar in the back, and reached for a newly poured glass of champagne at the same time as an unseen hand reached for the very same stem. Sherlock’s hand landed on top of the other; masculine, and rough to his touch. Sherlock turned to apologize to the face that went with it, and crashed into steel blue eyes surrounded by a sea of brilliant green and gold. Sherlock felt his hand start to burn as if he had set it into the licking flames of a fire. He pulled it away quickly after that, but the sensation had already traveled up his arm, and down into his chest.

“I’m so sorry Mr. Holmes.” The man behind the mask said to him, and picked up the glass of champagne to hand it to him.

Sherlock slowly took it, his mind uncharacteristically not caught up to body. He was confused as to how this man knew who he was by only the lines of his body, the curve of his jaw, and the peek of his eyes. Sherlock certainly had no idea who he was. But Sherlock didn’t have a chance to ask. The mask, and the beautiful features underneath them were gone, lost to the wave of people.

He took a moment to compose himself, drank down the flute in his hand, adding fuel to the fire still lingering inside there, and picked up another to bring to Irene. 

“Are you alright?” She asked, noting his distracted manner.

“I- yes, I’m fine.” He said to her, finding a smile to put across his face, “You said something about dancing?”

Irene smiled. She drank her champagne, handed the glass off to a server passing by, and placed one hand on Sherlock’s waist, and the other in his hand. He followed suit by bringing his free hand to her waist, and moving with her to the music emitted throughout the room by the string quartet and the small grouping of wind instruments. He tried to meet her eyes, and tried to make his have the same luster of love in them as she did, but really he was looking for any sign of that green mask again, and the man who was underneath it. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. The Man Behind the Emerald Mask

The music in the room was divine. Their shoes hit the dance-floor one beat at a time as Sherlock immaculately led the way. Their eyes remained locked onto one another as their legs subconsciously weaved in and out of each-other without fault.

Sherlock broke eye contact- he peered his gaze over Irene's shoulder in an attempt to find that glorious green mask again. He scanned the audience in his line of sight, but there was no sign of him. It was like he had vanished into thin air.

Sherlock's brow narrowed slightly in concentration as his eyes continued surveying the room with their every movement.

The feel of Irene's warm hands cupping his cheek suddenly snapped him out of his tranced state. He stared at her worried expression as her red fingernails lovingly held him inside the palm of her hand. "Sherlock, darling. What's the matter?"

"I-I'm just feeling slightly unwell. I-I think I might have to go and have a short lie down. Please excuse me, dear."

As Sherlock's soft cupid bow lips met with Irene's blushing cheek, he faintly smiled at her before making his way across the room to meet with the spiral staircase leading towards the second floor. His hands slid up the recently polished arm rail as he trudged up the steps making his way to the guest bedroom, which happened to be one of many.

Sherlock anxiously held his stomach as he felt the insides of his stomach knotting up out of nervousness. "Come on Sherlock. Get it together." He muttered to himself as his hand grasped the doorknob to the guest room.

As the door swung open he was met with a luxurious room. The walls inside were simply cream in colour as the smooth, mahogany floorboards he stood on were tanned. As his eyes scanned the room further he was met with a luxurious bed- it's bed sheets were silk with a golden bedspread on top. The velvet bedhead was the masterpiece of the room; it's royal purple complimented the golden buttons as they glistened underneath the light of the chandelier.

He slowly entered the room; fingers tracing along the nearby two seater lounge. The velvet arms were curved with rich embroidery to match the sophistication of the room he nervously stood in.

He felt his arms snaking their way along the back of the lounge before sitting down in it. He quietly closed his eyes, absorbing the rooms tranquillity as he placatingly laid onto his back, steepling his fingers underneath his chin.

As he became absorbed inside his own thoughts he heard the door to the ensuite bathroom creak open. He rapidly snapped his eyes open as he guided his body off the lounge. He was soon met with a familiar face covered by a green mask.

The man slowly closed the door to the bathroom, staring at Sherlock as he began to pace the mahogany floor. Sherlock cupped his hands behind his back, ignoring his nausea as he intently examined the mysterious man looming in-front of him.

"Who are you?" Sherlock curiously asked not taking his eyes off the man.

"Well, it wouldn't be a masquerade if you knew who I was. Would it?"

Sherlock's pacing came to a sudden halt as their peering eyes interlocked with one another. The only part of their eyes which could be seen were their irises- they swirled like the beautiful galaxies in the sky; mesmerizing Sherlock as a whole as he buckled at the knees.

As he slowly caught his voice he struggled to ask the next question, but somehow managed it. "What brings you into the guest room?"

"I needed some peace and quiet for a moment. I assume that's why you're up here also?"

"Your assumptions seem to be in-fact correct." Sherlock spoke as he re-steepled his fingers against the rim of his mouth.

The room fell silent as the two masked men continued staring at one another. Suddenly the silence broke as the sound of footsteps coming up the spiral staircase sounded. Sherlock rapidly peered over his shoulder to come face to face with an open door. Irene stood in the open space as she slowly staggered into the room, meeting the two men. "Sherlock..sweetheart, how are you feeling?"

Sherlock simply stood composed, staring down at Irene as she struggled to hold herself up. He took a gentle hold of her red dress to keep her steady against the weight of his body. "You have had too much alcohol, Irene. I told you before we left, not to drink too much. You know you can't handle your alcohol very well."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. I'll be fine." She remarked with confidence, slowly lowering herself onto the nearby lounge.

As Irene's hands left Sherlock's torso she felt herself becoming dizzy as the room around her faded in and out of focus. She leaned forward, looking up at Sherlock as the room surrounding him turned black. As she fell to her knees she collapsed onto the timber floor falling into deep unconsciousness.

Sherlock swiftly dropped to his knees, bringing his fiancée into his arms. "Irene! Can you hear me?" There was no response. She simply remained idle within Sherlock's firm embrace.

The footsteps of the masked man approached him. The way his feet hit the ground made Sherlock's curious gaze settle upon his figure. He held a black cane in his hand as he struggled to limp towards them.

He slowly eased his leg down so the rest of his body could follow. Sherlock watched attentively as his fingers met with Irene's pulse. "I used to be a Doctor. Well, technically I still am."

He slowly revealed her hidden face by untying the the magical ribbon which bound her disguise in plain sight. As her mask came off the structure of her cheekbones it delicately got placed onto the timber floor, revealing her identity as a whole.

"You're a lucky man, ." The man softly spoke as he slowly opened her eyelids to test her pupil reflex.

"Trust me. Some would disagree."

Upon hearing this, the green mask slowly looked up from Irene, replacing his vision with Sherlock's stern gaze. "You don't think she's quaint"?

"Oh, that's just one of many adjectives to describe her. She is many things- quaint being one of them."

A slight snicker emitted from the man as he pulled his hands away from Irene. "She'll be fine. No need to worry, she'll rest it off. You were right though- too much alcohol consumption."

Sherlock delicately scooped Irene into the crevice of his arms as if she was a breakable ornament. With great care he slowly lowered her onto the lounge she fell from, laying her great beauty down to rest.

The palm of Sherlock's hand slowly stroked her forehead, removing any stray curls that interrupted her serenity. As Sherlock gently lifted his hand from her soft skin, his eyes met with the beautiful emerald mask peering at him.

Sherlock hastily climbed onto his feet as he brushed down the elegant vest he wore. "So, I presume you're an Army Doctor? What brings you to London?"

"I _was_ an Army Doctor- yes. How did you know?"

Sherlock smirked as he cupped his hands behind his back, his knuckles brushed against the tail of his vest as he spun on his heels to face the open door. "Sir, would you care to join me for a quiet stroll outside?"

The man who hid behind the emerald mask seemed slightly taken back by this request, but he soon straightened himself out as a soldier would. "It would be my absolute honor." He kindly spoke as he bowed in kind gratitude.

The side of Sherlock's lips curved upwards in a faint smile; they elegantly strode out of the room side by side as their feet met with the pure white marble below. They confidently strode down the staircase as the sound of their shoes hitting the floor disappeared inside the noise of the room.

The both of them fought their way through the crowds of glitz and glamour as they strolled across the dancefloor to meet with the two large french doors- It's white frame matched the marble floor, and its windows were segregated into equal sections.

Sherlock's hand took hold of the golden door handles as he pushed them open. As the doors separated, a gush of cold wind entered the room- it's howl seeped through the fabric they wore producing goosebumps which could only remain unseen by the naked eye.

"Shall we?" Sherlock questioned, kindly gesturing his hand outside.

"Thank-you, . This shall be greatly appreciated."

Sherlock pleasantly returned a smile as he quietly shut the glass doors behind him. The cold breeze continued to blow through the air as the moon and stars above shone bright. They beamed their majestic qualities down to the Earth they stood on, illuminating the immaculate garden his mother was so proud to own.

As they both strolled down the stone pavement, lanterns danced like a million fireflies- you could see them trying to escape their glass cage as the wax which held them in place stood tall and bright.

"So, you never answered my question earlier. What brings you to the great city of London?"

The masked man limped along the pavement, slowly gazing up to the sparkling sky above. "You were right- I was an Army Doctor. I have seen things you would only dare to dream of."

Sherlock delicately held his hands together behind his back as they continued to follow the unspoiled pavement, trusting it to guide them in the right direction. "I can only begin to imagine. Judging by your limp the circumstances were obviously traumatic. Tell me, what happened?"

Sherlock's eyes met with the mysterious green mask in anticipation. His eyes traced down his face, over his cheekbones and finally to his lips. He flicked his tongue out, slowly guiding it over the rim of his own mouth to re-add needed moisture as he notably struggled to speak. "I got shot and re-located to London. But I don't think I'll be able to stay here for much longer- London is a bit out of my price range."

"Don't be ridiculous. London has plenty of affordable accommodation. Surely you can find somewhere cheaper?"

A scoff emitted itself into the cold breeze as he amusingly snickered into the coldness of the air. "Trust me, my budget requires something of substantial affordability. London is sucking me dry."

"Why are you here than? If you're as poor as you say, you wouldn't be able to afford the luxurious outfit you're wearing. And that mask must have cost a small fortune. A man like you wouldn't waste money on such materialistic garments."

"You're quite correct I'm afraid- the clothes I'm wearing are not my own. Irene purchased them for me. Do give her my thanks once she awakens. I would hate if her kind hospitality went unnoticed."

"Hm. Of course I'll tell her. I'm sure she will be absolutely flattered by your courtesy. Thank-you."

Time went quicker than expected as they soon met the end of their path. The pavement stopped at the elegant white gazebo as they graciously made their way inside the small shelter.

Trees with fairy lights wrapped around their trunks surrounded them. Hundreds of lanterns continued to shine bright, illuminating the immaculate garden they stood in. The harmonious melody of the wind instruments inside could still be heard from outside. The cool breeze carried their chords away as if they had never been heard.

Sherlock's hand grasped the wood as he stared up at the heavenly sky- It's stunning moon shone bright as did its stars. Sherlock could only imagine what laid beyond the swirling galaxies above as he became mesmerized by it's tranquil serenity.

"Beautiful isn't it?" He heard a voice project from behind, almost forgetting he wasn't alone.

Sherlock promptly peered over his shoulder as he watched the man behind the emerald mask gradually drift closer towards him. He stepped one foot in front of the other until they were eventually side by side again.

"Beautiful is an understatement." Sherlock replied as he stared at the mysterious man by his side.

A smile made itself apparent as the two men gazed into the glorious stars above. The cold breeze blew against their skin, snapping them back into reality. It was like the Universe was telling them not to drift away, just stay in the moment a little bit longer- use the time they have together wisely because later on it won't come easy.

"So, did you dance tonight?" Sherlock curiously questioned as he let go of the wood in the grasp of his hands.

"Dancing isn't exactly my area of expertise."

"You're at a masquerade ball, you have to dance- It's tradition."

"Trust me, - you don't want to see me on the dancefloor. I am embarrassed to even think about such complexity."

"Are you telling me, you don't know _how_ to dance?"

"Well, even if I did- I can't. There is no possible way my leg would allow such pressure."

As Sherlock's gaze settled upon his limp leg, he slowly moved his body in closer to his. "Don't be ridiculous- Of course you can. Let me teach you. It would be an honour."

"Mr. Holmes, sir.. I couldn't possibly ask you to do that. I am nothing more but a mere peasant in this century. If it wasn't for these beautiful garments, I wouldn't even be here tonight."

Sherlock's hand softly hovered over the skin of his knuckles as he took a step closer, gradually closing up the space between them. "It would be my privilege to teach you how to dance on this beautiful, majestic night." He paused for a moment as he took hold of the man's hand, holding his grasp firmly within his own. "There is no need for nervousness. Dance with me. The only eyes watching are yours, mine and the stars above."

Sherlock gently placed a hand around the man's back. As his fabric gracefully ran between his fingers he slowly guided a hand to meet with his waist as the two of them stared seductively at each-other. "Just follow my lead." Sherlock whispered into the cold air.

The green mask gave a slight nod, not breaking eye contact. As he felt the movement of Sherlock's body sway against his, their eyes interlocked with one another- one mask staring at the other. "See, you can dance." Sherlock whispered, slowly fastening his speed at the appropriate time.

"You're the first person I have ever danced with. Thank-you."

As their legs and feet slowly entwined, they could feel their bodies rub up against each-other. Sherlock's fingertips gently caressed the hand he held as their eyes didn't break contact for a second.

Without a word their dancing came to a sudden halt. Sherlock's eyes glistened as he slowly cupped his hand around the cheek of his partner, gazing into his magnificent irises. As both hands delicately met with his green mask, he slowly began untying the bow at the back of his head. The way the string threaded through his fingers caused the mask to fall from his face, landing inside the palm of Sherlock's hand.


	3. It's not Really Love if you Don't Inhale

It was quite amazing how much a mask, covered from just below the eyebrows to just above the cheekbones, hid who someone was. With his eyes a part of the whole of his face, Sherlock could see him. He could see the wrinkles that peaked in the corner, and the creases in his forehead. He looked as a man who had gone and returned from war was expected to look; tired, and a little worn. There was also something familiar about him, something he felt like he had seen before.

Sherlock gently set the mask down on the ledge of the gazebo, and turned back to the stranger.

He was handsome. Quite handsome in fact. Even in the dim light of the chilled night, Sherlock could see the golden kiss of sunlight across his skin.

"What's your name?" Sherlock asked.

"Watson, sir. John Watson."

Sherlock held his hand out, "lovely to meet you John Watson."

He laughed, "We've met before."

"Have we?"

"Yes."

"You were walking in the garden a few evenings ago, and tripped over some tools I had left out. You called me an idiot, and threw my sheers into the rosebush."

Sherlock thought back to the last time he had walked through the garden. It wasn't a leisurely stroll, but rather he had been chasing after Irene, trying to apologize for insinuating that she was a daft cow. He did remember coming upon the rosebush, and nearly falling onto his face after his shoe for caught underneath the handle of a shovel. He also remembered picking up the nearest tool, the sheers apparently, and throwing them into the leaves and budding flowers. And he also remembered turning to the gardener; a short man with tanned skin, rough hands, and an uneven stance due to a limp in his leg, and barking out that he was an idiot before running off again to find his temperamental fiancee.

"Oh." Sherlock said upon the realization. "Sorry."

John laughed again.

They stood in the night wind, far too close to one another, and far too lost in the other's gaze. But Sherlock could not bring himself to look away, could not bring himself to step back. There was something about this John, about this  _man_  that had Sherlock feeling a way he had never felt before.

Suddenly, John reached his hand up and brushed his fingers along the smooth glass of Sherlock's mask. It was such a gentle, light gesture, and Sherlock was almost certain he could feel the other man's touch against his cheek. John's hands would be rough from vines and thorns, and the wooden handle of the sheers. They would have been tough before, from gripping a gun, and exercising medical tools. Whatever it was that made John Watson's hands, and his fingers the way that they were, they would feel magnificent over the sharp, cool bone of Sherlock's cheek.

"Your mask is beautiful." John said.

"May I take it off?" he asked, quietly as he moved in even closer to Sherlock, nearly cutting off any space that was left between the two of them.

Sherlock nodded, and tensed a little as John's hands slid behind his back, and gripped at the ribbon hiding in his thick mess of curls. Sherlock felt his knuckles brush against him much the same way Irene's had earlier in the night, putting the mask on, but this touch made him shiver. John was just centimeters away, and Sherlock was trapped within in his arms, helpless to do anything. He couldn't even get a grip on his own breathing for God's sake.

Sherlock felt the weight of the mask fall away from his face, and followed it down into John's hands and over to the ledge where he set it next to his own, not breaking his eye contact with Sherlock. John licked his lips; his tongue darted out just the slightest bit, but Sherlock knew what the intention was. He could feel it in all of his nerves, deep down into the pit of his stomach.

He felt John's breath against his lips, hot and sweet; that had almost been kiss enough.

Sherlock could feel his lips aching to touch John's, but it wouldn't have been right. Sherlock may have been a spoiled man, taking what he wanted as his own since childhood, but this was different. Kissing John was something that went beyond his very nature as a man- intended to kiss soft lips and touch lovely curves.

"Mr. Watson-" Sherlock said, his lips just barely brushing against the other man's, causing a fire to spark inside his belly.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" The whisper of John's voice was just as luxurious as his laugh had been.

Sherlock had to stop everything his body was screaming at him to do before he lost all of his sensibilities. With an immense amount of willpower, Sherlock pushed himself away, stiffened his back, and smoothed away imaginary lines in his vest. He reached for his mask, and held it in his hand, trying to stop the shaking he could feel running through his fingers.

"I believe I should go see how Irene is doing." He said, the air of formality and strength he normally had in his voice back on edge.

John was standing there, trying his best not to look like a wounded creature, but failing. Sherlock gave him his dignity however, and pretended like he didn't see it.

"Thank you for the dance." Sherlock said to him.

"No. Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock nodded, and stepped down the small set of stairs that brought him down from the gazebo, and back into the ground. He quickened his pace back to the house, fighting every impulse not to look back; not to run back.

Sherlock made his way into the house, music still playing, voices still laughing. It didn't matter that neither guest of honor was there, it only mattered that there was champagne and marzipan, and fresh, juicy fruit. Sherlock passed by everyone once again and went up the stairs, running his fingers along the cool brass of the railing. He opened the door to the guest room where he had left Irene, and smiled upon seeing her awake, sitting on the bed. They had left her on the lounge, so it appeared that she had been awake long enough to move herself into the bed, and freshen up her face a bit.

"Feeling better?" He asked. And if he had any real concern, it wasn't evident in his voice.

"Yes, I am. Thank you."

Sherlock sighed, "not even an hour into this party, and you faint?"

"Your brother found me after you left. I needed a few glasses to get through a conversation with him. And a dance."

Sherlock did understand that. He often thought that alcohol could make an encounter with Mycroft easier to stomach.

"That's no excuse for you to act like a common lush."

"Oh, honestly Sherlock, do you know how to have any fun without all of those silly chemicals and compounds you spend all day with?"

"They aren't silly. They're science." Sherlock said, as petulant as a small boy.

Irene smiled. She was always smiling, and Sherlock didn't understand why. She couldn't actually be happy. Not with her father mishandling their wealth in such a way that left them nearly destitute. The only reason she still has her fancy clothes, and they still lived in their home with their items of comfort and excess was because Sherlock's father took pity on Mr. Adler, his banking partner for years; gave him a loan, let him keep his home, and offered his youngest son as the last saving grace.

Sherlock supposed that maybe he was the reason she still managed to keep her happiness. It was obvious that, though he may not have been her first choice in husband, she loved him, and was looking forward to becoming Mrs. Holmes.

Sherlock, on the other hand, did not love her; he barely even liked her, thinking her to be a bit of a slag, despite her appearance as an innocent, morally clean woman, but no one painted their nails or their lips as red as she did without at least looking for a certain kind of attention.

"Do you think you would like to go back to the party now?" Sherlock asked her.

"I would yes, but do you think that maybe you could lie down next to me for a bit first?"

Sherlock laughed. "I know perfectly well that you don't intend for me to just lie with you."

A knowing smirk crossed Irene's lips, "so what if I don't? I am going to be your wife"

"And when you are, things will be different, but until then, do try and be a lady, or as close to one as you often pretend to be."

Her smile became a frown, "something has put you in a mood." She said, and lifted herself up from the bed.

Sherlock watched as she ran her thumb across his cheek, and dropped an easy kiss onto his lips. Her kisses were usually quite pleasant even if they weren't always wanted, but knowing that just moments earlier, his lips had almost met with those of John Watson made the taste of Irene's mouth almost entirely intolerable.

He pulled away from her more quickly than she had been expecting, and picked up her mask from the table, pushing it into her hands.

"Let's return." He said, with a smile far happier than he truly was.

As usual, Irene bought his rouse, because she wanted it so much to be truth. She slipped her mask back on, and Sherlock did the same with his own, and they walked together down the stairs and onto the ballroom floor.

Sherlock pulled Irene into an embrace, and they floated across the same floor. But just as before, his eyes kept leaving his partner's face to search for that green mask. There were plenty of them in the crowd, far more than he remembered serving earlier, (twelve; he had counted twelve) but none of them were the one he was looking for.

It wasn't until the night was nearly over, having given way to the creeping light of dawn that Sherlock saw it. Bright and shining like the jewels in his mother's necklaces and earrings. John was just across the room, leaning on the brilliant silver head of his cane, and watching. The corners of his mouth ticked up in a smile when Sherlock found his eyes, and Sherlock could almost swear that he felt his cheeks flush.

But of course they hadn't. Not from the smile of another man at least. If they were flushed with heat it was only because the room was warm, and they hadn't stopped dancing for hours.

"Sherlock-" Irene' voice, low and screaming for sleep, caught his attention. "I love you." She said.

Sherlock tore his eyes away from John, a much more difficult task than it should have been, and smiled down into her face.

"I love you too." He lied.

 


	4. Love is an Illusion

The guests left the party in groups. One group at a time departed the glorious mansion, bidding Sherlock and Irene farewell. They thanked them for the marvelous evening and kind hospitality before they momentarily took their leave.

The last person to leave the mansion was John. Sherlock graciously held the door open for him as their eyes immediately locked onto each-other like magnets.

"Thank-you for the wonderful night Sherlock. It was beautiful- a night under the stars. I shall never forget it."

A small snicker of amusement rolled over Sherlock's face as he extended his arm. His firm grasp wrapped around John's hand as he politely shook it, bowing his head in pride. "I should be thanking you Mr. Watson. You were always the man I never saw, but now you have developed into something more. And I thank-you for that."

Sherlock slowly bowed his head again, placing his gentle lips on the rough of John's knuckles. His slow deliberate kiss caused John to feel elated, almost weak as everything which had happened that night had finally started to sink in.

"I shall see you later on this afternoon I suspect. But for now, you should get some rest." Sherlock gently whispered along the back of the hand he held.

As his mouth traced over John's knuckles, he felt a hand clasp itself around his curls. The way he tugged at them almost pressured him to stay- but he couldn't. The risk was too great. Irene could walk in at any given moment, she was merely taking a short rest upstairs before their departure.

"John...please." Sherlock painfully whispered as his breath expanded along the surface of his skin. "You need to go. I promise I will see you this afternoon."

As his soft lips left John's hand, he met with his glittering eyes- they showed a somewhat conflicted expression, as each line in his face clearly represented how he was feeling.

John soon adjusted himself, giving a stern nod as he spun on the heels of his shoes. "Well, I sure do look forward to it ."

Without a word more, John left the manor- Sherlock watched as he managed to limp down the round driveway. He disappeared into the black luxurious car which would take him home immediately.

Upon John's leaving, Sherlock steadily turned around as he closed the door behind him. His distraction was soon interrupted as he heard a pair of shoes clamber their way down the stairs- it was Irene. She presented herself, fresh as ever- ready for the day ahead.

Sherlock couldn't help but look her up and down; he rolled his eyes at her repulsive perfection as he paced towards her. "Come on, we should be taking our leave too, Irene. My parents have been hospitable enough." He paused for a moment as he un-done the back of his mask, letting it fall into the palm of his hands. "And plus, I don't like leaving Redbeard alone for too long."

Irene chuckled as if it were a joke. Her fingers brushed along the rim of Sherlock's mouth as she wrapped her hands around his waist. "Whatever you say. I swear, you care for that wretched dog more than you do me."

Sherlock stared into Irene's fiery eyes, seductively holding her gaze within his own. "Nothing could ever come between my love for you." He quietly spoke, taking a gentle but firm hold around her waist.

Sherlock slowly lowered his head onto Irene's jaw-line as he ghosted his way down to her neck. He steadily began kissing her, planting small but deliberate kisses along the expanse of her jugular. "And nothing ever will." He quietly spoke in conclusion.

His mouth met with her red lips, kissing them as passionately as he could in his act of desire. Irene's fingers slowly ghosted their way up his vest, rubbing the back of his shirt in loving strokes. "Sherlock, I have never seen you like this before. You surprise me sometimes."

"Well, maybe you should get used to it." He lied, seductiveness coming off his every breath as he lured Irene into false hope.

Irene chuckled, crinkling her nose in delight, her fingers fondled the fabric she held in her hand as she brushed her lips against the side of Sherlock's face. "If this wasn't your parents house. I would be doing a lot more than just kissing you- I can assure you of that."

"Well, maybe you're just going to have to be patient." Sherlock said as he brought his mouth towards her ear. "I like to be the dominant one in a relationship." He whispered.

Sherlock gently pulled away from Irene's body, letting his hands fall from her waist to his side. She gave a somewhat mischievous smirk as she threaded her arm through his, walking out of the manor side by side.

* * *

The same driver which had picked both Sherlock and Irene up earlier the night before, had now returned them home. Sherlock had never considered Irene's house to be his  _home._ It was merely a motel in his eyes.

Every-time Sherlock would dispute the claim it would always end up in an aggressive argument, filled with both heat and tension. She would always say this is his home for as long as he lives, but the problem was, he didn't want it to be his home. He didn't even want to be the future husband of Irene Adler anymore- but it's not like he ever did.

Irene looked over to a distracted Sherlock, firmly grasping her hand around the thigh of his leg. She rubbed it in soothing motions, almost bringing a certain arousal to his body- a sensation he had never felt until now. But he was confused- was he turned on by Irene's touch? Or was it because he only ever had John Watson on his mind?

"Sherlock, darling. You're going to get rewarded tonight. Just me, you and my faithful riding crop. I'll show you a good time one way or another."

Sherlock subconsciously straightened out his posture along the seat of the black leather he sat on- he wasn't sure why, but Irene's idea of a  _reward_  was not just confronting, but it was intimidating.

"We should be going inside, Irene. Surely you have something else to preoccupy your mind until night falls?"

As Sherlock climbed out of the car, Irene gave a slight snicker. "Well, that was a little bit rude, wasn't it, darling?" She commented as he politely opened her door.

"Not rude. I was just merely stating the facts."

As they both walked to the front-door, Sherlock allowed Irene to enter before himself. He watched on as she rapidly passed him, striding up to her bedroom.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock called out, causing her to stop in her tracks.

"Bedroom, dear. Do what you please for the rest of the afternoon. I'll see you tonight."

Irene's figure disappeared inside the bedroom without a single word more. Sherlock was left behind, distracted inside his own thoughts- he gazed into the wooden grain of the door as every obsolete corner of his mind became flooded with images of John Watson.

 


	5. The Tale of the Almost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments!  
> We appreciate it so much.
> 
> We'll keep the chapters coming, if you keep the love coming!  
> -mk

Sherlock' s thoughts were, thankfully, interrupted by the exciting scatter of claws against hardwood flooring. He sank down into his knees when he saw the rusty red coat of his Irish Setter round the corner from the kitchen into the sitting area. He threw his arms out and wrapped them around the neck of the dog, burying his face into the recently groomed fur.

"Oh, you are a lovely sight." Sherlock said, smiling at Redbeard as if he could actually in understand.

Redbeard was old, bits of white dotting the fur around his whiskers, and his amber eyes fading into a much more pale yellow than they were when he was a puppy. But Redbeard’s fading looks, and his slow descent into the other side of old age only made Sherlock love him more. The lean and beautiful creature was the only life Sherlock had cared for besides his own, the only life he had ever nurtured, and really, the only life he had ever bothered to love.

 **"** Do you want to get out of this horrible, dusty place?” he asked, “stretch out your legs and do a bit of running; would you like that?”

Redbeard wagged his tail wildly, and rocked back and forth on his hind legs like a nervous kind of dance. He was likely just responding to Sherlock’s fingers scratching behind his ears, but Sherlock took it as an affirmative to his question asked.

He smiled, and stood to his feet. Sherlock went up the stairs, Redbeard following behind, and pushed open the door of the bedroom, quietly, as not to wake Irene. She was rather peaceful with her dark hair haloing around her paper white skin, and her makeup washed from her face. He undressed from his masquerade costume, and folded the silken and cotton threads over the back of a chair sitting at the desk.

He needed a shower. He probably also needed to sleep; the last time his head had rested against a pillow was two nights earlier at his own home. He could easily crawl into the bed next to Irene, and close his eyes for just a few hours. He didn’t need much. But he had promised Redbeard that they would go, and if Sherlock was honest with himself, which he had been spending the better part of twelve hours not being, he was anxious to get back to home as well.

Sherlock showered, slipped into a crisp gray shirt with ivory buttons, and a pair of fine black trousers. He skipped putting a tie around his neck, but did clasp black braces to the waistband of his trousers, and slipped his arms through the holes of a black waistcoat, buttoning their thick ivory buttons. Satisfied, he went back downstairs, put on his long, woolen coat, and slid his driving gloves over his fingers and each knuckle. He grabbed Redbeard by the collar, and led him outside where a driver; his, not Irenes, and not the same man from earlier was leaning against the car.

“Leaving sir?” He asked, quickly moving to open the door.

“Yes, but I’ll take myself, thank you. Help yourself to some of the cold meat inside.”

“Yes, sir.” he nodded, and held the door open for Sherlock to get inside, with the dog jumping in beside him.

Sherlock took his time in enjoying the drive, at least once he got out of the main congestion of the city. When he arrived at the manor, so quiet and calm after the festivities of the night before, he parked in the circle alcove near the door, but instead of going right inside, he walked to the side gate, and opened it, letting Redbeard run wild along the grass.

He hadn’t noticed the night before in the dark, but the oncoming winter was beginning to take it’s toll on the garden. Most of the roses had shriveled into themselves, leaving the bushes bare and depressing. The only thing with any real life left in it on that cool, late October afternoon was the red ivy, burning up from the dying and desiccated grass, and covering the walls of the manor in lapping and licking flames.

Sherlock followed the stone trail that led further into the garden, calling after Redbeard. He heard the muffle of words coming from around a large, weeping tree, He turned the corner, and stopped nearly dead in his tracks as he saw John, squatted down with his weight pressed against one foot, the other outstretched in front of him, and his can resting by his side.  Redbeard’s face was  nuzzled up against his, and his fingers threaded into the fur along his back.

Sherlock swallowed, and did his best to regain his gentlemens composure, before striding forward a few more steps.

“I see you’ve found a friend.” Sherlock said, with a smile across his lips.

John looked up, and returned the smile. He pushed himself up, bent down for his cane, and leaned heavily against it, after leaving a kiss on Redbeard’s neck.

“Mr.Holmes.” He greeted, with a nod.

“Please, do call me Sherlock; I intend on calling you John going forward.”

“Oh.” John nodded. “Alright.”

They were quiet for a moment, standing in each other’s company. John was wearing a long sleeved, white shirt meant to be worn underneath a jumper or another shirt. There were four buttons starting at the neck that went down to his mid chest- he had them all undone and showing the last vestiges of his tanned skin; fading away into the changing season just as the plants he tended to were. His trousers were brown, and worn down at the knees, and his braces were old, likely passed down to him from his father or perhaps an older brother.

He was beautiful standing here, and Sherlock hated that he thought so.

“Did you sleep at all, Sherlock?” John asked, pressing his thumb into the dark circles underneath his eyes.

“No. Did you?”

“A bit. It was rather restless.”

“Another set of nightmares about the war or something else this time?”

John tilted his head, and looked curiously at Sherlock, “How did you know that I have nightmares?”

“You told me you got only a little sleep, but the way that you said it, with an all too familiar sigh, told me that it’s a common occurrence for you to get little sleep. You’re relatively young, and in good health, so it’s a traumatic event keeping you awake; possibly a remembering of how you got the wound that sent you home from the war.”

"I- uh-” John scrubbed his free hand against his face, “No. I’m not having nightmares about myself. They’re about the other men; the ones I couldn’t save.” He said quietly.

“You’re a medical man, John; you know how difficult it is to keep someone alive in a decent hospital with our modern advances; no one honestly expected you to save them all.”

“Someone managed to save me.”

They were quiet again, before John shook his head, and twitched the corners of his mouth into a grin, “That was brilliant there; what you just did.” he said to Sherlock.

“Yes?”

“Yes. But I wasn’t having a nightmare last night.”

“Then what was it that kept you awake?”

John took a step forward, getting closer than he already was, “I was dreaming about you.”

Sherlock already knew that of course; but hearing it come off as whisper from John’s tongue took the breath right out of him. He surged forward, and knocked their noses and their forehead together. He had every intention to kiss him, but he couldn’t close that last gap.

Their mouths hovered, open and wanting, like the same charge of two different magnets trying desperately to connect, but never quite meeting. Sherlock could feel John's hot breath hit against his lips and travel across the sensitive skin underneath his ear. His nose pressed against the hollow between the edge of John's nostril and his cheek.

Sherlock wanted so badly to break through the negative energy keeping their mouths apart, and capture John's lips as his own. He wanted to run his tongue along their seam until John acquiesced to his silent plea for entrance, and then he wanted to lick every bit of John Watson's mouth and memorize the way that he tasted.

He wanted to, dear God, he had never wanted anything more, but he just couldn't.

"I should probably make sure Redbeard hasn't gotten into any of the bushes." He said, his voice quiet and his eyes closed in equal parts pride and disappointment in his willpower.

He started to back up, and lift himself away from John when he felt a strong hand grip at the back of his neck and bring him in even closer to John's body and face.

"Please, Sherlock, don't walk away." John said.

"I have to. This, between us- it isn't decent, it isn't right."

John smirked, "I didn't think you were the kind of man who was concerned with what is decent and right."

I'm not, generally."

"Then please don't find your concern to start now, and bloody kiss me instead."

John's hand held his grip, and he dipped his head, bringing full, delicate lips onto Sherlock's neck. Sherlock instantly was set ablaze. Each slow and deliberate kiss left on his neck was like a prod from the fire iron. He found that he had craned his head to the side just a little, allowing easier access and offering up more skin to John.

His hands worked of their own volition to tug at the short blonde tips of John's hair, and despite his best efforts not to, a low, needy moan rose up from his throat.

Sherlock was mere second away from giving into his base desires; his entire body thrumming with want and need, when his name was carried on the wind across the garden, and nestled into his ears.

Just as his mother had managed to shatter many moments when he had gotten delightfully lost in a book as a child, she was tearing into his opportunity to get deliriously lost in John.

"I really- I must go." He said.

"Will you come back?" John asked, his lips still sucking lightly at Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock took John's face between the palm of his hands, and lifted his head so that they were looking at one another; their eyes level.

"Yes." He said. "And when I do, I'm going to kiss you properly."

 


	6. Chasing Fireflies

Sherlock smoothly straightened out the creases of his clothes, almost attempting to hide away any of the evidence displaying what had just happened between the two.

John was left behind as he watched Sherlock's glorious body sway with the breeze of the wind. He walked down the stone path with pride- it glowed from his body just like the lanterns had the night before.

John subconsciously extended his arm, trying to reach for Sherlock's distant body as his figure slowly grew smaller. John wanted so bad, just to hold Sherlock's body within his arms and curl his strands of hair between the crevices of his fingers. All he wanted to do was hold him and tether him to the ground without regret.

As Sherlock's presence made his way to his Mother's call, he opened the same large french doors from the night before, coming face to face with his Mother as she patiently awaited inside.

"Yes, Mother? You called?"

Your Father and I are going to the lake- we're going to take Redbeard with us, it's been so long since he has been. You know he loves it there. Would you like to come?"

"Oh, um. No, thank-you. I think I'll just stay here."

"Well, if you're staying. You should practice your violin composition for the wedding. You know everyone is expecting you to play. It would be wonderful."

Sherlock became slightly annoyed with his Mother's commands- he didn't need to  _practice_  his composition. The song he was playing on the night of his wedding was one he had played a million times over. Practice didn't even come into the equation.

He slowly took hold of his Mother's hand, cupping it within his own. "Of course I will. Now, you should be going. You know Father isn't a patient man."

She gave out a short-breathed chuckle as she patted Redbeard by her side. She attached a leash to his collar, threading her fingers through his long, beautifully groomed fur. "We're going to be off now. We'll be back in time for dinner."

Sherlock gave his Mother a gentle peck on the side of her cheek, bidding her and Redbeard farewell.

They charismatically walked out of the manor together, side by side as Sherlock watched from inside. The last thing he saw was Redbeard's tail wagging in excitement as she closed the door behind them.

Sherlock turned on his feet as he looked out the large glass windows. He saw John making his way up the side of the manor, starring the huge monstrosity up and down in awe. The only time John had been inside was from the night before- at the Masquerade party. And Sherlock knew he was adamant to change that.

Sherlock's long strides reached the french doors where he peeked his head around the corner. He watched as John roamed the side of the building ahead of him, slowly becoming further away with his every step.

He found himself grasping the nearby ledge as he leaned over the softness of his hands. "Now, where do you think you're going?" He shouted out, effortlessly gaining John's attention.

Without hesitation Sherlock ran across the neatly cut grass where he met with John. They stood in place, gazing at each-other as their fingers subconsciously weaved themselves in and out of one another.

Sherlock watched with intent as he saw John's mouth move closely towards his. His breath almost seeped into the rim of his mouth as he began to speak "I'm not going anywhere." He quietly whispered.

A subtle curve made itself apparent as Sherlock smirked in enjoyment. The way John Watson's breath lingered inside his mouth felt so good. Words couldn't explain how badly he wanted more.

All he wanted to do was embrace that sensational feeling of John's tongue gliding over his own, tantalizing his taste buds in certain arousal.

As their bodies hovered over each-other, Sherlock slowly brushed his nose against John's. He closed his eyes as conflicted emotions ate away at him. "John." He quietly whispered, feeling John's body shudder within his grasp. "I told you I was going to kiss you." He paused, biting his tongue as he tried to find the right words to speak. "And I promise I will. But not here- not now."

Sherlock could feel John's lips meet with the crevice of his neck, breathing succulent breaths along the expanse of his taut skin. "Sherlock..you need to talk to me. Look at us- you can't deny our feelings for each-other."

As Sherlock's face slowly lowered onto John's, their lips hovered over each-other again. "I don't deny our feelings John- I never have. Tonight..I'm supposed to be going home to Irene- But..I won't. I want to be with you." He stopped talking for a moment, gingerly pulling his face away from John's. He stared into his beautiful eyes as he gazed back into his. "I have something special planned for us tonight. Trust me, you won't be disappointed."

"Of course I trust you. I will always trust you."

Sherlock gently placed his lips onto John's forehead, giving him a mild kiss."Thank-you" He delicately whispered.

The both of them stood together, hand in hand as they pulled each-other into a firm embrace. John rested his head on Sherlock's chest, staring into the distance. The sun beamed down onto them as they heard the birds chirping in the near distance.

They could feel the peaceful serenity in the atmosphere flow freely around them. They held each-other tighter, closer as they evidently indulged in each-others every touch.

* * *

Sherlock's parents returned home just on dusk. Redbeard excitedly bounded out of the car, galloping into the house like a horse. His claws tapped along the driveway as he eagerly waited to be let inside.

Sherlock opened the door from the inside, gaining Redbeard's attention in an instant. His pupils dilated in excitement as he hurried inside to greet both John And Sherlock. His tail wagged madly as he sniffed their clothes, weaving himself in and out of their legs. Strands of stray fur attached themselves to their clothes as he continued to brush himself against the two men.

"Hey, Redbeard! How was the Lake? Did you have a good time?" Sherlock asked with enthusiasm as he scratched his ginger belly in loving strokes.

Redbeard simply replied with a groan as Sherlock's pamper satisfied him fully. He suddenly rolled off his back, promptly looking down the hallway as he frantically ran down the corridor- to his food bowl no doubt.

Sherlock looked down at his pants, strands of red fur covered them whole. He leaned over, picking the fur off his black as he heard his parents walk in the door.

"Sherlock. What have I told you about petting Redbeard while wearing black? You know he molts. Look at you, you're a mess. Go upstairs and change."

"Mother, please. I'm not twelve anymore. I am an independent adult and I can also think for myself."

Her hand met with Sherlock's shirt as she softly held the front of his shoulder. "I know that sweetie. But I am never going to stop being your mother."

Sherlock tried to look away, but he couldn't. "So, how was the lake?" He hastily questioned to change the subject.

"Oh, Sherlock. It was absolutely beautiful. Just stunning. You should take Irene there one night. I'm sure she would love it."

"Oh, yes. I'm sure she would as well." He sarcastically replied, picking the red fur from his clothes.

He looked up to meet with his Mother's gaze where she gave out a certain look of disapproval. His tone of voice was obviously not acceptable, especially not in the company of others. Sherlock could read her mind inside out as if he was reading the text from a paperback.

"Are you going to be staying for dinner tonight, Sherlock?" She questioned, trying to break the sudden tension which filled the air.

Sherlock brushed himself down for a final time, smiling graciously at her question. "Not tonight. But thank-you for the offer. It's greatly appreciated- just like always."

She smiled graciously at his choice of words, approving quite fondly of them. As she walked up the staircase she waved farewell to both Sherlock and John. "I'll be in my bedroom if anyone needs me."

Both Sherlock and John stood in the main foyer, looking at one another. No words were verbally spoken, but their stern emotions said enough.

"You know, I said to you earlier- I have something special planned for tonight. You didn't seem taken aback by it at all..."

John gave a somewhat baffled expression as he tried to manage a reply. "Why would I be taken aback by it? Is this a date?"

A faint snicker hit the air as Sherlock paced the open floor. "Of course it's a date. I wouldn't have done this if otherwise."

"Interesting. So, tell me- should I be dressing up for this spontaneous occasion?"

Sherlock's pace came to a halt as he took John's hand within his own. "That's completely your choice."

John smiled bowing his head in gratitude as he felt Sherlock's tenderness within his own. "Well, in that case then- pick me up at six o'clock. It will give us both time to get ready."

Sherlock's mouth curled up in delight as he pecked John's knuckles. He made sure to make it brief, since they were still occupying the main foyer together- anyone could walk past. "Six o'clock it is then. I shall see you within the hour."

As John left the building he clambered down the driveway, getting inside the car which was always scheduled to meet with him. He waved Sherlock goodbye as the car drove out of the area, slowly disappearing into the distance.

Sherlock was left behind with a visible smile still on his face. He walked down the corridor where he was soon met with his own private wing. It contained his master en suite bedroom, a guest room, Redbeard's room and a small bathroom for himself or his guests.

As Sherlock pulled out a small silver key from the pockets of his pants, he unlocked the door to his bedroom. He lazily pushed it open, revealing an extravagant room of expense. His walls were covered in cream while his scarlet curtains made of silk draped elegantly over the expanse of his window.

He slowly paced inside as his feet hit the ivory floor below. His eyes gazed the room for what felt like the first time in months. As Sherlock knelt down onto his knees his fingers tenderly brushed along the red and white persian rug. As they gradually moved along the textured rug he was soon met with a large wooden chest. He used the padding of his fingers to outline each individual grain with intent, holding the silver padlock in his hand.

The padlock clicked open as Sherlock turned the key, he gingerly opened the chest, revealing various garments of clothing. As he pulled out a black vest- he smiled at himself. He knew exactly what he was going to wear tonight.

* * *

 

Sherlock pulled up outside of John's small apartment, jogging up the few stairs to greet him. Just as he was about to knock on the wooden door it opened before him, revealing a luscious John Watson. He wore a golden vest with a fitted black shirt- it had silver buttons attached to it which glimmered under the light of the moon. His black pants came to his ankles, brushing along the edge of his polished shoes.

Sherlock gave out a faint smirk as he graciously bowed in respect. "You look very special tonight." He remarked, slowly kissing John's hand in the process.

"I could say the same thing about you."

Sherlock chuckled slightly, straightening out his black vest as he felt the weight of John's arm thread itself through his. He lovingly met with his eyes as John stared back into his."Let us be off now, my wonderful John."

As the both of them walked down to the curb, Sherlock graciously opened the door for him. He smiled warmly as he got into the drivers seat, placing his gloved hands around the steering wheel.

The moon guided their way as they worked their way out of the busy London city. Grassy knolls soon came in sight as the breeze of the cold wind blew against the black metal of the car.

Sherlock fruitlessly attempted to rub warmth into the thigh of John's leg, trying to give out false heat. "So, John. Do you have any idea where we're heading tonight?" He questioned.

"No, Sherlock. I don't. But I must admit- I do like surprises."

Sherlock snickered as he reached into the pocket of his pants. He pulled out a long piece of fabric, handing it to John. "Put this on over your eyes." He said.

John hesitantly took the cloth from Sherlock's hand, tying it over his eyes. Once it was on, he could see nothing- he was blind. All he could hear was the sound of Sherlock's voice and the sound of the car as it drove along the open road.

"Are you ready, John?"

"Of course I'm ready."

"Good. Because we're here."

John could hear as the car came to a stop- he heard Sherlock's door shut and his open. Sherlock took a gentle hold around John's shoulders, guiding him out of the car one step at a time.

As he looked down at John's face, he could see an undeniable smile riddled across his face- the suspense was killing him, which drove Sherlock crazy.

He gently moved his mouth down to John's ear. His breath cascaded into his eardrum as he whispered a subtle breath inside. "You're going to love it here, John. I'm sure of it."

Their footsteps came to a sudden halt as Sherlock let go of John's shoulders. He brought his hands up to his coarse hair, tenderly undoing the fabric wrapped around his eyes. As the cloth gingerly fell into Sherlock's hands he was met with an expression of complete and utter shock.

"Sh-sherlock...wh-what is this?" John managed to stutter as he slowly dragged his feet along the long blades of grass swaying at his ankles.

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk as he gradually came up behind John. "It's for you." He said as his fingers gently traced the structure of John's hipbones. "And only you."

"S-sherlock..I'm speechless."

Sherlock chuckled on the expanse of John's skin as he lowered his mouth onto the tenderness of his neck. "I thought you'd like it."

As John became mesmerized in the location he wrapped an arm around Sherlock's curls, pulling him in closer.

The moon beamed down onto the green grass as it swayed through the whispers of the cold breeze. The lake held the reflection of the luminous moon as it's surface glimmered in all the right ways. It's sophistication shot through the atmosphere like a bullet on fire- it gave out a certain peace and tranquility which calmed John as a whole.

"I knew you'd like it." Sherlock confirmed, bringing John out of his tangent mind.

"I-I love it."

The lake acted like a mirror as visible fireflies illuminated the area they inhabited. Their light delicately bounced off each-other as Sherlock and John watched in awe. The neon light weaved in and out of each-other as they danced a million symphonies. They could hear them sing, projecting their beauty into the tranquil atmosphere.

John's smile has never been so wide. He spun in an endless circle, trying to take everything in.

"Come and sit down my dear, John."

John and Sherlock walked hand in hand to the edge of the lake. The fireflies continued to dance around them, projecting their beauty onto the two men.

"Sherlock..this is amazing."

Sherlock took a gentle hold of John's hand. He gently clasped his hand within his as they gazed into each-other's glorious eyes. The fireflies illuminated their irises, giving out the illusion that their green and blue was brighter than the moon above.

"John.." Sherlock began, gently stroking the hand he held. "I have  _never_  felt this way about anyone before. But, yet, as soon as I laid eyes on you, my heart stopped." Sherlock paused, as if he was trying to look for the right words to say. "And, I never thought falling in love could feel so good."

John's face moved closer into Sherlock's for what felt like the hundredth time that day. His mouth wavered over Sherlock's tenderness as their ragged breaths cascaded onto one another. "Sherlock..I love you." John whispered with closed eyes.

"I know you do. And I can assure you- I feel the same way."

Their mouths painfully hovered for a moment as Sherlock couldn't hold back his pulsing desire any longer. He viciously grasped the back of John's blonde hair, pushing his mouth onto his. His lips were like heaven- the way his hot breath seeped into his mouth caused certain arousal inside the fabric of his pants. Sherlock could feel himself subconsciously kneeling up on John's lap, trying to get closer to him in any physical way. "Fuck." Sherlock painfully whispered as he felt John's hands tug at his curls.

Sherlock could feel John's erection underneath his own. This was too overwhelming for the both of them. The way John's tongue slid over his own sent his mind over the edge in undeniable desire.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. I love you." He heard John mumble out in-between kisses.

"I love you too, John."

 


	7. My Soul on Edge

Sherlock deepened the kiss, the power of the words he had just spoken, and the words he had just heard taking over any sensibility he might have had left. He plunged his tongue into John’s mouth, tasting every corner, and committing it to memory. His hands were cupped around John’s face, his fingers ticking against the hairs at the nape of his neck. A great deal of his weight was pushing against John’s chest as he bent down to have access to the other man’s mouth, and John had one hand braced behind him in the grass, and the other tightly clutched into the fabric of Sherlock’s waistcoat.

As the kiss grew frantic, and sloppy, John’s body couldn’t take the pressure, and he fell against the Earth below them. It broke the kiss, with Sherlock’s lips chasing after John’s.

“Sorry.” John said, with a light giggle in his voice.

“No, no it’s fine. I think I was due to breathe anyhow.”

John’s giggle turned into a laugh, and Sherlock started to laugh along with him. He had never laughed like that; so open and free, and over nothing of any importance. Eventually the sound slipped away, and John sighed instead. His eyes were wide with a wonder Sherlock had only seen in children before, as he stared up at him from his pinned position on the ground.

“You are gorgeous, aren’t you?” John mused. He said it out loud, but it was so quiet, that it was as if he was talking to himself. “Not like other men, and not like women. You are you’re own kind of beauty of Sherlock.”

Sherlock was thankful that the light of the fireflies was too dim to show the blush that had creeped into his face.

John's fingers hesitantly reached up, and smoothed across the ivory buttons of Sherlock's waistcoat. He fumbled with them a little, slipping them through the button holes until it hung open wide at his sides. He did the same with the buttons of his shirt, exposing more and more of Sherlock's skin as he went. Soon, both garments were open, and Sherlock watched as John's hands, more confident, started to trace through the line in his sternum, and along the edges of his ribcage.

Sherlock started to tremble at the touch. It was so new, and so exquisite, as if John knew exactly how to touch him. Sherlock reached down to unbutton John's shirt as well, but John's voice stopped him before he even a finger wrapped around the small, gray button.

"There are bits of me you're better off not seeing. Not yet."

Sherlock nodded, and brought his hand back into himself.

They had both been achingly hard since the moments their lps had finally touched, but like proper gentleman they had been ignoring the desire of their bodies. Only, Sherlock couldn’t; he wouldn’t ignore it anymore. As John’s hands continued to explore the angles and planes of Sherlock's chest, Sherlock rolled his hips in a slow, clockwise motion against John, pressing their clothed erections into one another.

John’s hands stilled against Sherlock’s skin, and a breathless moan of surprise escaped between his lips. Sherlock smiled, and repeated the motion, hoping to hear the same beautiful sound.

“Oh, God; that’s good. Keep doing that.” he said, and so Sherlock did.

He ground his hips down and around, and John ground his hips up and around; meeting each other in a torturously wonderful rhythm. Their soft cries mingled into the love songs of the fireflies, becoming a part of them. Sherlock was losing his control; his breath was erratic, and sweat was building on his hairline and across his chest. he had never felt like this before; never dreamt that he even could.

“John.” he said, because he needed to say something, and it was the only word that he could think of.

“Sherlock- God; yes.”

John’s voice made Sherlock open his eyes, and look down at his lover beneath him. His head was arched against the grass, and he looked as debauched and out of control as Sherlock felt. It was beautiful, and it was all that Sherlock needed to push him over the edge with one final grind into John’s pelvis.

Sherlock had arched his back so far to gain enough force that his hands were behind him, palms pressing into the cool blades of grass. His mind, always a constant stream of information had shorted and gone silent. He was trying to slow and catch his breath when he felt John’s hands tug at his waist, bringing him back into the present moment.

Sherlock let his body be unfolded back toward John, let his knees slide until he was flat against John; his chest warming against the scratchy material of his waistcoat. He laid there, letting John twine his fingers in his curls, letting himself be held and taken care of for a few moments before the thoughts started to swarm back into his head.

“Are you alright?” John asked, his breath sliding over the top of Sherlock’s head.

“Yes. I’m perfect, thank you.”

“But?” John prompted.

Sherlock sighed, and reluctantly pushed up from John. He slid away so that he was sitting next to where he was still lying, and started to button his shirt.

“What I said earlier- about loving you- It is true. But I have responsibilities; obligations. I don’t have the same freedom that you do.”

“You mean Irene?”

“Yes. So, as much as I would like to run off to Paris with you, and live the rest of our lives as bohemians; I just can’t.”

John sat up, “This can’t be it, Sherlock. I won’t let this be it.”

“It won’t be. I promise you that, but I’m going to have to marry; I may have to start a family, and you have to be able to accept that. I need to know that you’re strong enough to stay hidden from everyone but me.”

John got up onto his knees and knelt beside Sherlock. He pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, and Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

“I survived the war, didn’t I?” he asked.

“Oh, John, I’m beginning to think that war is a tame affair compared to love.”

He wrapped an arm sideways around John’s waist and pulled him down so that John’s head fell onto the thick of Sherlock’s thigh. They stayed there together, watching the glimmer of the stars and the flicker of the fireflies dance and dizzy all around them.

* * *

 Sherlock had almost made it. There was only one more small staircase, and a short hallway until he would be in his bedroom; unseen and unheard. He hadn’t snuck into his own home like this since he was a child, and the farmer down the road a ways had a stillborn piglet one summer he let Sherlock take home for dissection.

Almost there. Just one, two, three more-

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

The voice was stern and familiar, and also reminded him of the stillborn piglet incident, and when his mother had found him wrist deep in its tiny little stomach in the garden. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, and turned in the hallway to see his mother in her dressing gown.

“Yes, mother?” he said with all the innocence he could manage.

“Would you care to explain to me why your fiancee is asleep in your guestroom when you were supposed to have been out with her tonight?”

“I-Miscommunication in time and where to meet?”

She shook her head, and took a step closer to him, “Look, you are allowed as man to have an indiscretion, and I know that you aren’t as keen about this engagement as you’re letting everyone believe-”

“Mother, I assure you there are no indiscretions, and I am very happy about my engagement.”

She pursed her lips, and looked her son up and down, studying his face in much the same way they he studied everybody elses. When she seemed satisfied with what she found there, her face softened, and she smiled.  

“Do make sure you apologize to her in the morning. She was nearly in hysterics.”

“I will mother. Now goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

He waited until she had turned to leave, and continued on his way. He passed by the guest room, and thought of looking in on Irene, but decided against it. He knew what she looked like asleep anyway. He went into his bedroom, closed and locked the door. He stripped out of his clothes, tossing his sticky and ruined trousers into the bin along with his pants.

Naked, and walking slowly through the dark, he went into the bathroom and drew himself a bath, lighting candles as the tub filled. He lowered himself into the steaming water, sloshing a bit over the sides and onto the floor. He laid his head down against the porcelain back, and closed his eyes.

He thought about just moments earlier when he had left John back at his flat. They pressed against one another in the shadows, lips heavy and frenzied, hands and fingers everywhere they could find a piece of flesh. John had whispered in his ear that he loved him, and Sherlock said it back over and over again until his throat nearly went raw.

It took ages, but what only felt like seconds for them to part, and when they did, it was with a lazy, slow kiss, and one more declaration of love. Sherlock stood on the doorstep, and listened to the sound of John's cage hit each step inside as he went.

Then Sherlock had left, gone home, and gotten into his bath, wishing he had followed John inside.

 


	8. The Oncoming Winter

Days and weeks unknowingly passed. Weather changed as London grew colder with every waking moment. It was nearly time. Going into battle was going to be far more tedious than he had ever previously thought.

As Sherlock stared out the window, he grasped the wooden ledge. He could almost smell the oncoming onslaught of snow as he imagined it cascading down to the earth below. He could see it covering what was green into an elegant coat of white.

The coldness sent a chill up his spine as he nonchalantly spun on his heels. He stared at the room he stood in as its whiteness shot through him like a frenzied blizzard. Everywhere he looked was a shade of white- the ceiling, the walls, even the floor. The white marble held his reflection as he stared at his confused expression- his double.

Sherlock subconsciously hugged himself, searching for some type of comfort. He wanted, so badly to feel John's arm cling themselves around him- tell him everything is going to be okay. But is it going to be okay? Will they always remain secret soul-mates?

Of course in the passing month they continued to tell each-other nothing but the positives of their relationship. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to believe John's every fragile word. But the truth is, expectations and reality are two very different worlds.

These secret visits were taking their toll. Hiding, running, acting- it was all part and parcel of being in a secret love affair- trying so hard, not to let your words slip when in public was beginning to prove more difficult than originally anticipated.

Sherlock slowly exhaled a lazy breath as he picked up the bow of his violin. He stared at the window, longing for John Watson to be there by his side. All he wanted was for him to shroud those loving arms around the space of his abdomen, as he graciously played their favorite song. But he couldn't. They made a promise to one another- a painful promise.

It brought the two men to their knees, weeping inside each-others arms. Neither of them wanted it, but they knew it was the safest thing  _to_  do. The only thing they could do- stay away from each-other, until after the wedding- until all of this heat has cooled off into smoldering ash.

Sherlock violently dragged the bow over his violin, emitting a graceful, but shattered sound from its wooden core. The instrument shook under his chin as he anxiously held it within his sweaty palms.

He lowered the bow to his side, clasping it furiously within his grasp. As he stared at the floor, his double snarled back at him as his undeniable anger broke free. He launched his bow through the air, it flew until it unavoidably hit the wall on the other-side. Its strings scratched down the wall, landing on the white marble as it lay victim of Sherlock's wrath.

Sherlock peered over his shoulder, staring out the window, he watched as two black Frisian horses trotted their way up the driveway.

Their long, silky manes were as black as the night-sky, the texture glistened under the flares of the Autumn sun, highlighting their every detail. They were braided in various styles, elegantly draping over the bulkiness of their bodies. Behind them they carried a large black carriage before coming to a sudden halt.

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin as he watched the carriage door open from outside. His brother, Mycroft stepped out, carrying a top hat in his hand as he waved his driver goodbye.

"Sherlock! Your brother is here. Please make an appearance, unlike the last time he was here." He heard his Mother call from downstairs.

_Great_. Sherlock thought to himself as he paced out of the music room.

His footsteps met with the staircase, slowly strolling down each step as if it were his last. As he lazily met with the floor below, he heard the front door swing open. Standing in the open space was his brother, he proceeded to eye Sherlock up and down as he distinguished his every detail.

"Hello, my dearest brother." Mycroft exclaimed, with a hint of sarcasm rolling from his tongue.

"Mycroft." Sherlock graciously bowed before bringing himself back up to Earth. "I assume you're here for the breakfast Mother organized for us?"

"Ah, yes. The breakfast before the wedding. How delightful."

"What do you mean? You're acting like this is the last time we will see each-other." Sherlock said as he began to nervously pace the floor.

"Well, it very well could be. After Irene sweeps you away- god knows what could happen. You might become a... _Father_." Mycroft spat, speaking the last word as if it was poison from a foreign language.

Sherlock chuckled, stopping his pace momentarily. "Me? A Father? I'm not entirely sure how that would work. I wouldn't exactly call myself  _Father_  material." Sherlock replied.

Mycroft laughed at his remark as he lazily walked away. "God forbid anything disgraceful happens then. Because it would be quite a shame if a child had  _you_  as a Father."

Mycroft's words shot through him like a lethal bullet- cracking the outside of his shell.  _Mycroft really thinks that?_  Sherlock continued to think to himself.

He had never thought about children, he had never even pictured himself as a Father before. But hearing those words- the way they rolled from Mycroft's tongue with such ease, sent shivers down Sherlock's spine.

* * *

The breakfast table was flourished with food. It had everything from fruit, eggs and cereal to pancakes and scones. The surface of the large oaken table was barely seen as each individual helped themselves to the feast before their eyes.

Sherlock watched as Mycroft peered out of the panes of the large glass windows. "Your gardens are looking lovely today." He commented, trying to make conversation.

"Oh. Yes. We have a brilliant gardener. He is just brilliant. Best gardener I have ever hired."

"Is that so? Well, if he is so great. Where is he today then?" Mycroft questioned as he observantly surveyed the area, awaiting a reply.

"The poor darling is sick today. So I told him not to worry about coming into work today- I told him to concentrate on getting better."

Just as Sherlock was about to eat his first mouthful of food he suddenly dropped his eating utensils in mid-air. They came clattering down, hitting the porcelain chinaware below. "S-sorry! That was a complete accident. Sorry..please do carry on. Ignore my rudeness."

Mycroft slowly broke his gaze from Sherlock, redirecting his attention onto their Mother. "Please, do carry on Mummy." Mycroft affirmed.

"Well, as I was saying- he is brilliant. There is never a fern out of place."

As Mycroft and their Mother continued to ramble, Sherlock was suddenly in his own world. His thoughts flashed back to the very first night they danced together- the way that beautiful emerald mask fell from his face into the palm of his hands caused shivers to run down his spine. He remembered it like it happened yesterday, every detail becoming clearer then the last.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" He heard a distant voice ask, but he couldn't quite grasp onto the question as he remained inside his daze.

"Sherlock!" His Father snapped, snapping Sherlock out of his trance in an instant.

"W-what? Oh, yes. I-I'm fine. Sorry. I-I didn't get much sleep last night." Sherlock gently pushed the chair out from underneath him as he stepped to the side. "I think it might be best if I go and take a short nap. May I be excused?"

"Of course you can be excused. I know how worried you are about this wedding. And I also know social situations are not your favorite thing in the world. Take as long as you need, dear. Mycroft isn't going anywhere." His Mother assured as he rose out of her chair to give Sherlock a somewhat comforting hug.

Sherlock smiled, nodding his head slightly as he paced away from the table. He walked up the hallway of his private wing, where he opened the door to his bedroom. As he entered the room, he was half expecting Irene to be inside, waiting for him. But luckily she wasn't. There was only one thing Sherlock wanted- the company of John Watson and if he couldn't have that he just wanted to be alone.

Sherlock wasn't lying about the fact of not sleeping- that much was true. But the circumstances in which his Mother believes are false. In all honesty, Sherlock didn't care for the wedding- it was just another complicated obstacle keeping him away from John. A complex he was going to have to overcome.

He sighed as he swung himself up onto his golden bed. He blankly stared at the ceiling above as he felt his mind flood with a million different thoughts and memories. Each and every one contained John Watson, even if he wasn't there, his brain incorporated him in as if he was. It was driving Sherlock insane. He couldn't get John Watson out of his mind, no matter how hard he tried.

Sherlock knew he  _had_  to go see him. He couldn't go on like this.

Sherlock threw himself off his bed, storming out of his room in content rage. He felt pleasure and fury eat away at him, trying to fight for dominance within his body.

He pushed open the front doors, mildly jogging down the steps as his heart began to race with the knowledge of where he was going.

The driver stood outside of the black car, bowing respectfully as Sherlock approached.

"Hello, sir. Where may I take you today?" He politely asked.

"I need to go and see John Watson. Please take me to his apartment."

"Certainly sir. Please make yourself comfortable." The driver replied as he opened the door for Sherlock.

As the car drove away from the estate, Sherlock couldn't help but gaze out his window, entrapping himself within his thoughts. John Watson was always there.

The car passed the grassy knolls of the country-side, eventually moving its way into the city. London was havoc as cars narrowly missed each-other, they sped past what felt like hundreds of vehicles in such a short time span.

Sherlock felt the car stop as he gazed out the window. He looked at the driver, smiling. "Thank-you. You don't have to wait here. I'm not exactly certain as to how long I'll be. I hope you have a wonderful afternoon sir." He commented as he walked to the front step of John's apartment for the first time in a month- God, it felt like so much longer. It felt like a lifetime.

As he slowly rose a fist to meet with the wood of John's door, it suddenly opened from underneath him. John stood in the open space, looking as glorious as ever. An undeniable smile spread wide across his face as he stared at Sherlock's glittering eyes.

"S-sherlock? What are you doing here?"

"I had to come and see you. I couldn't handle this any longer. This separation between us..it was slowly killing me."

An understanding smirk spread across John's face as if he knew exactly what Sherlock was talking about. "Trust me, I understand."

Silence came into the air as the two were lost for words- they had so much to say, but couldn't find the words to speak.

"Would you like to come inside?" John offered as he took a gentle but brief hold of Sherlock's hand.

"Yes. I would. I would like that very much."

John smiled, nodding slightly as he held the door open for Sherlock. They walked inside together, Sherlock quietly gazing at his surroundings without a word.

"Sorry, I guess this isn't as luxurious than what you're used too."

"No, it's perfectly fine. I didn't come here to see how you live. I came here to see you."

John could feel himself slightly blushing as he nervously scratched the back of his head. "Oh, please take a seat. I'll put the kettle on."

"That would be brilliant. Thank-you, John."

As John clambered into the kitchen, Sherlock proceeded to stare at his surroundings. There was nothing special about the apartment, it was fairly ordinary- cream colored walls, hardwood flooring, a lounge and a small desk with a lantern on-top. Very low maintenance indeed.

Sherlock sighed as he crossed his legs, he watched John make their tea in the kitchen. He put the two cups of tea onto individual saucers before carefully walking out to his lounge-room. As he sat down he handed one of the saucers to Sherlock, who pleasantly smiled at him in return.

"Thank-you, John."

"You're most welcome."

John slowly eased himself down onto the lounge, cocking his leg out in-front of him for minimal support. "Blasted leg! Always gets in the way of everything." He exclaimed, softly hitting his leg with the end of his cane.

Sherlock took a subtle sip of his tea, rising the rim of the cup to his mouth. "Mhm." He softly murmured, knowing all too well his limp is in-fact psychosomatic.

John slowly lowered the lip of his cup from his mouth as he showed a confused expression. "What was that?" He hastily questioned.

"What was what?"

"That soft mumble you made…"

"It was nothing. Please, do not worry about it."

John let out a half breathed sigh as he put his cup of tea back onto his saucer, gently placing it onto his coffee table. "Why are you here, Sherlock?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow, looking slightly confused by the question- almost as if he didn't understand it. "I'm here to see you, John."

"And for what? We haven't seen each-other in one month-"

"I know. But I needed to see you." Sherlock swiftly intervened, cutting John's sentence off within an instant.

John gently bowed his head, sighing at the floor as he spoke."You should not of come here. We should of seen our arrangement through to the end."

Sherlock gently lowered his cup as he placed his saucer besides John's. "You're mad with me."

"No. I'm not mad. You have given me no reason for anger. But...with that being said, that doesn't mean I'm not hurt."

"Hurt? I-I've hurt you?"

"Not yet- but you will. Once you marry Irene, how will we ever get time together?"

Sherlock was slightly taken aback as he stepped backwards slightly, he painfully furrowed his brow in confusion as he looked up to John. He stared into those emerald green eyes of his before he hastily walked over to him. "John, I promise you. Nothing is ever going to come in between us. I am only marrying Irene because I  _have_ too."

"I know that. And I also know how homosexuality is frowned upon. I know what would happen to us if we were ever caught together. God dammit, Sherlock. I know."

John's frustration was ripping him to shreds. He looked up into Sherlock's brilliant sea of blue as he watched as he slowly knelt down in-front of him. As he placed a gentle hold onto John's knee he slowly moved his head in closer to John's. Their lips were hovering, aching in desire.

"S-sherlock..i-it has been a month. A month since we have had any contact." John painfully whispered as his breath cascaded onto Sherlock's face.

Sherlock gently closed his eyes, moving his hands onto John's hips. "I know John. I am so sorry. Please forgive me."

John's eyes snapped shut as he tastefully bit his bottom lip in painful desire. "Sherlock..I told you, you should not of come here."

Sherlock's eyes opened, just millimeters away from John's. He watched as John's breathing changed into hoarse, ragged pants. Sexual desire eating away at his very being.

Sherlock gently tilted his head as he rose onto his feet, he lightly lowered himself down onto John's body as he entrapped him within arms length.

 


	9. This is Where You've Left Me

Sherlock straddled his legs around John’s waist, his knees digging into the cushions of the lounge, and he pinned John in place down into the couch with his pelvis. John grimaced at the force Sherlock was using, trying to protest through his heavy panting with his eyes since his voice was failing him, but if Sherlock noticed, he didn’t care.

He crashed his mouth down against John’s, tugging at his lips with his teeth, assaulting him with his tongue. He pressed his thumbs down into the hollows of John’s clavicle, hard and deep enough to leave bruises for the coming days.

"Sherlock, please-" John pushed his hands against Sherlock's chest, a breaking desperation in his voice.

But Sherlock continued to ignore him, and sucked John's bottom lip into his mouth. He had gone so long without John, and he needed him so badly.

"Sherlock, please, stop this now." John’s voice was threaded with desire, but his words were short and clipped none the less.

"I thought you said that you missed me."

"But that's just it; I'm always going to be missing you. I'm always going to be second."

"You're not second. I love you, not her."

"But you're supposed to love her."

Sherlock sighed, and leaned up, giving John room to breathe. "So, what; you want me to leave?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Forever?"

John closed his eyes. He held them closed for several minutes, and Sherlock just watched the creases of his face deepen into caverns. When he opened them again, it was slow, and he looked beyond Sherlock’s shoulder at the wall first, before finally looking directly at him, and quietly answering Sherlock’s question.

"Yes." he said.

Sherlock leapt off from John, and grabbed at the sides of his head, tugging his curls down to the tips of his fingers.

"I asked you if you would be strong enough for this. I gave you an opportunity to get out before it even started-"

"It started the moment your hand touched mine!" John yelled, matching Sherlock’s furious anger, if not exceeding it. He took a breath, and then softer, "I never had an out."

"But, I love you."

“And I love you."

"Then don't do this. Please."

He could hear the desperation in his own voice, and it made him feel nauseous. He was supposed to be stronger than this; better than the beating of his heart.

"It's for the best. You know it as well as I do."

Sherlock wanted to drop down onto his knees, cling onto John and never let go. He wanted to sob into the thick cotton of his shirt, and beg. He would do anything, absolutely anything John wanted him to do in that moment of it meant he could stay and taste him, and feel him; make love to him.

But what John wanted, was for him to go, and so that was what Sherlock was going to give him. He dropped the hand that was halfway in the air, starting to reach out and touch John.

“Okay.” he said, quietly. “I’ll go then.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“Don’t!” he snapped, “Do not apologize to me for being a coward.”

“I am not a coward.”

“Aren’t you? You’re sent home from the war, and you hide behind a shoulder wound, and a limp that isn’t even real. You can be a doctor again, but you choose to be a common gardener instead.” Sherlock lunged forward and down so that his nose was touching John’s.

“And you can love me, John; I’m giving as much of myself to you as I possibly can; more, even, but you’re too afraid to take it. So, do not apologize to me, because you’re not even worth it.”

He pulled himself back, and turned to storm out of the apartment, leaving John behind. He found a man with a carriage to bring him home, muttering to himself the entire way like a mad man. When he finally got there, he paid the man his fare, and stormed just as angrily into the manor. He threw his coat down on the floor in the entryway, marched passed the sitting parlor where his mother and Mycroft were enjoying an afternoon cup of tea, and up one of the many sets of stairs.

Sherlock threw open the heavy door of his father's study. The man was sitting at his writing desk, a pipe between his lips, and papers underneath his hands. He looked up upon the intrusion, and jumped back slightly in his chair as his son slammed his fists down against the cool, marble top.

Sherlock had always been good at throwing a temper tantrum. He was a child who had been taught it best to keep everything inside, so he did. But it always came rising to the surface, and when Sherlock couldn't take it anymore, he exploded into a million tiny pieces.

"Why me?!" He shouted. "Why do I have to marry Irene? You could have made Mycroft do it."

Like a long time soldier returning to the battlefield, Mr. Home didn't bat an eye at Sherlock's fury. He lowered his pipe, and calmly sat up straight in his chair to lock eyes with his son.

“Mycroft has already made his choice in life. His path isn’t meant for marriage.”

“And mine is? You didn’t even give me the chance to make a choice; you just handed her to me, and said that it’s time to be someone’s husband; because why’ she’s the daughter of your business partner? Give him a loan, make it a gift, and tell him not to bother paying you back- don’t use me as a pawn for him to get his money back!”

“Sherlock.” He said, just as calmly as he had been, “As the youngest, you are left to bear the burden your brother passed on. He didn’t want a wife, and he didn’t want the business, and it was his prerogative to choose that. I know you find that unfair, but it’s your duty, and for as free spirited as you have always been, you have also always understood your sense of duty.”

“Father-”

Mr. Holmes held up his hand to indicate that he wasn’t done speaking. “I also know, that this isn’t just about a need to rebel, a need to take control of your life now that you feel I’ve taken it away. So, whoever she is, this other woman who has you so bent out of shape, you tell her to either find her place with you in the shadows or you leave her.”

Sherlock pushed a curl away from his face, and breathed in a gentle breath, “I already did.” he said; most of his anger washed away and turning into sadness.

“Ahh, and so you had to leave her, then? I am sorry, Sherlock, but this is the way that things work.”

Sherlock nodded, and bowed his head. He turned on his heels, and slinked out of the study. Not more than a foot down the hall, and on the way to his own bedroom, he saw Mycroft standing against the wall; an uncharacteristic, and frankly nauseating look of concerns over his face.

“Fuck off, Mycroft.” he said, before his brother even had the chance to say anything to him.

He continued on his way until he could unlock the door to his wing, slip into his bed, pull the covers over his head, and let his emotions leave his body one sob at a a time.

 


	10. Heart-ache and Desire

Tears drenched the pillow he laid on, it was wet, full of unexplainable emotion. Sherlock kept telling himself everything was going to be okay, but what a lie that was. He knew he wasn't okay. The man who he truly loved was gone, and marrying a woman who he had no desire for infuriated him entirely. And what for? Just to blend into society?  _How pathetic_. He thought to himself.

He began to sit himself up, trying somehow to compose himself.

As he shook his head inside the palm of his hands, he heard a knock on his door, followed by a voice. "Sherlock..may I come in, little brother?"

"No. Just go away."

"Sh-"

"I said go away!" He yelled, slightly angrier now as he tried not to show his emotion.

Sherlock stared at the floor of his bedroom, waiting for a response in dispute. But it never came. An eerie silence lingered the room instead, trying it's hardest to extinguish all emotion inside the room, but failing.

"Hmm." Mycroft's voice projected from the other-side of the door.

"What?" Sherlock snapped in arrogance.

"Nothing. Just... you have known for a long time you were to marry Irene. You didn't seem the slightest bit worried about it. Why would you get so upset now?" He paused for a moment as he gave Sherlock time to respond if he wanted to do so. "Tell me, Sherlock..who have you met?"

Sherlock's eyes widened in a sense of uncertainty. He gulped slightly, looking around the room for a distraction...an answer.

"Sherlock?"

"I-I...I-it doesn't matter. H-" Sherlock stopped talking as he stuttered his words. He soon adjusted himself, trying not to let his emotions get the better of him. "I mean... _she_  has nothing to do with this. I told her I'm getting married and it couldn't possibly work."

"Mhm. So who is he?" He heard Mycroft call from the other-side of the wood.

Sherlock gulped in fear, he slowly rose his head as his eyes met with the door at eye level. "I-it's not a  _he_. Trust me, Mycroft. I am not a homosexual." He nervously lied, trying not to stutter his words.

"Right. Because I believe you. You seem to have forgotten little brother, Mummy did invite me to the Masquerade party- I was there. And, oh...the things I saw."

Sherlock hastily stormed onto his feet, charging towards the door faster than lightning. He slowly opened it, peeking his head around the corner to meet with his brother's smug expression.

"What did you see?" Sherlock agonizingly whispered, almost fearful of the answer he was going to get.

"I saw enough."

"Mycroft..tell me right now...what did you see?" Sherlock snarled in anger as his eyes glimmered in frustration.

Mycroft looked around the room for a moment, staring inside their Father's office where he remained seated. He then looked back to Sherlock, gesturing him to go back inside his bedroom so he could follow.

Sherlock obliged to the request as he shut the door behind the two of them. As Mycroft wandered the room, he walked to the golden bed where he stared at the flooded pillow, drenched in tears.

"Well, I can tell you- I saw you and a certain somebody dancing in the garden that night. You two seemed close. So, who was he?"

Sherlock closed his eyes in a certain repulse- failure. As he carefully gritted his teeth together, he began to speak, painfully admitting to his love affair.

"His name is John Watson."

"John Watson? And tell me, Sherlock. How long have you been hiding from Mummy and Daddy?"

"The entire time. Ever since that damn Masquerade Party. Why did everything have to get so complicated?"

Mycroft chuckled slightly as his feet began to pace the room. "Because, life, Sherlock….it is difficult. And when you don't fit into society- things are going to get a hell of a lot harder. That's just how its gotta be."

"But why? Why can't everyone just respect others choices in life?"

Mycroft snickered again as he slowly traced his hand over the golden bed frame. "Free will is an illusion, Sherlock. The sooner you understand that, the better off you'll be." "Mary Irene, have children- create a family. Force yourself to blend into society."

"And if I don't?"

"Well, it's going to end up bloody for the both of you."

Sherlock suddenly felt nauseated to his stomach as he looked into Mycroft's eyes. "Bloody? How bloody?"

"People will look at you differently, you'll get treated different." "One by one, you'll see people slowly fade out of your life." He peered over his shoulder as he stared at the framed photo of their Father. "And it won't be just friends and acquaintances either. You'd be surprised how fast a family can turn on their own flesh and blood."

"Don't you dare tell them. This is between you and I. No one else. Do you understand me, Mycroft? No-one can know about this!" Sherlock slightly yelled as he hovered off his bed, snarling Mycroft in the face.

Mycroft simply looked Sherlock up and down, snickering as he placatingly rose his arms up into the air- displaying his innocence. "I swear on my heart. I won't tell a single living soul."

"Thank-you." Sherlock replied, breathing a sigh of relief.

Mycroft reached into his black vest, pulling out a pocket watch to check the time.

"Well, dear brother. I should be off now. Do take care. I assume I will see you at the wedding."

Sherlock didn't reply, instead he just watched as Mycroft left the room. He closed the door behind him as Sherlock heard his footsteps pace down the hallway, becoming more distant with his every step.

Sherlock had never felt so alone in his life. He lazily collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling above- lost for words. He snapped his eyes shut, becoming infested within his thoughts- his memories. His mind took him back to that first night they kissed- the fireflies dancing around their bodies was indescribable. And now, he had to let all of that go.

Nothing would ever compare to John Watson. Sherlock was certain of that now.

* * *

Night grew as the stars came out to play. Sherlock felt like time had frozen, he felt like he was about to jump off the edge of the Earth in one final leap of faith. Would John Watson be on the other-side? That was the question he had to continually ask himself.

Sherlock outstretched his arm, reaching for the stars. His fingers felt so close, but so far away. He slowly brought his fist down to his chest, clenching it over his heart as he struggled to find his heart-beat through his shattered rhythmic melody.

The noise of claws clattering against the floor brought Sherlock out of his trance. He watched as the shadow of a wet black nose sniffed itself under the door, soon followed by a distressed whimper. Sherlock saw two ginger paws try to maneuver their way underneath the wood, but only failing as Redbeard let out a shallow howl.

Sherlock forced himself onto his feet as he slowly dragged himself across the room. As his hand grasped the doorknob, he hesitantly opened it. Redbeard sat on the other-side, tongue wagging as his tail swept across the floor in excitement. He bounded onto four paws as he yearned for attention from his owner.

Sherlock simply knelt down onto his knees as he scratched his fingers behind Redbeard's ear. His ginger fur gradually entwined with Sherlock's soft hands as he lightly leaned his head against Redbeard's."Hey boy. You're a good boy, aren't you? I can always trust you." He softly whispered.

Redbeard just stared at Sherlock, clueless of how he was feeling. As Sherlock pulled his face away from Redbeard's, he could feel his eyes burning with tears as he struggled to hold his emotion in. He remained on the floor of his wing as he felt Redbeard's body frantically pace around his own- he could sense something was wrong.


	11. Where there is Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yea, hey; have 1400 words of smut. ;)

In the weeks and days leading up to the wedding, Sherlock's dread grew. There were many moments throughout any given day where his chest tightened, and he couldn't breathe. His heart started to beat fast; so fast that he thought it might break right out of his body, and he would break out in a cold sweat so terrible that he would have to change his shirt. He didn't eat, didn't sleep, and he hardly bothered to leave his bedroom at all.

He simply stood at the window, the curtains caressing their sheer fabric over his skin as he stared down at the garden below, watching the snow cover the ground and the beautiful bushes that just months earlier held roses. He watched the sunflowers fold into themselves and wither away, and he watched the ivy; that strong and determined ivy crawl its way out of the frozen ground and

Irene had all but moved herself into the manor, ordering around the staff as if they were her own about what to do for the upcoming affair, and satisfying saturating the guest room with her dresses and perfume bottles. And the things that she didn't bring with her, had been packed up and brought over to their flat on Baker Street; all the furniture uncovered and the windows opened to air it out before the couple would be able to call it home.

Sherlock was by the window, yet again, watching down below as snow was shoveled into a path leading up to the gazebo, and the winter berry bushes were pruned and shaped within an inch of their lives. He knew that John was shown there, somewhere among the dozens of people that had been put at the mercy of issues Irene's demands, but every time he caught a glimpse of that sandy hair, he willed himself to look away. He couldn't look at him, because if he did, he was certain that he would die.

There was a soft knock on his door, and then a creak as it opened. He silently cursed himself for forgetting to lock it after he had gone down for breakfast.

"Sherlock?" Irene's voice carried across the room; tentative and hopeful all the same.

"What?" he asked, not turning away from the window, and trying with all of his might not to call her every vulgar name that he knew and throw her out of his room.

“I just, well, the wedding is less than twelve hours away, and I’ve been so busy, and you’ve been...here. I- I wanted to see you.”

“Good, you’ve seen me. Go now.”

There was a silence, and for a moment Sherlock thought that maybe she had left, but then he heard the shuffle of her slippered feet against the rug, and he felt her hand rest on his shoulder. He was surprised at how quickly and easily he relaxed under the gentle touch of her fingers brushing against the silk fabric of his shirt. To have someone, anyone touch him like they loved him was something that he was desperate for. He reached behind, and rested his own hand on top of hers.

“I love you.” She said,

“Yes. I know.”

“Before you and I were engaged, I had many suitors. They all loved me, and more than one had declared their desire to marry me. I adored each and every one, and any of them would have made a fine husband, but there was always something about you, Sherlock. Ever since I was a little girl, and you made me cry in the garden. And I think, that I’m in love with the way that you don’t love me.”

Sherlock sighed, and closed his eyes. Irene wasn’t an idiot; that was one of the things he did actually admire about her. All of his acting could fool everyone around them, but it could never fool the one person it was meant to the most.

He kept his hand on hers, let their fingers slide together, and turned so that he was facing her. A broken smile spread over his face as he watched her eyes glisten with sadness.

“You’re right.” He said. “I don’t love you.”

Irene let out a sob of breath that she had obviously been holding in, and the well of tears she had also been holding onto spilled over the swollen and red rims of her eyes. Sherlock wiped them away with the thumb of his free hand, and then held her face still.

“But, that doesn’t mean that I won’t one day.”

Because, after all, if he couldn’t love John, if he couldn’t be with him, then he should at least try to love someone, now that he knew his heart was capable of it.

Sherlock kissed her; her lips salty with tears, and he let go of her. Irene smiled, and composed herself, smoothing down the creases in her skirt, and wiping underneath her eyes. She pressed a single kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, and left.

Alone once again, Sherlock stripped from his clothes, and wrapped himself in one of the fine silk dressing gowns he had hanging in his wardrobe. He closed the curtains, set out the lights and the candles, and climbed underneath the heavy covers of his bed to sleep until first light of morning.

Which of course, came far earlier than he would have liked.

Sherlock awoke to find a tray of tea and toast set on the table next to his bed, and note underneath the saucer.

_Sherlock-_

_Do remember to smile today. You’re so handsome when you smile._

_-Mother_

He did smile, and tucked the note into the drawer of the stand. He drank his tea, nibbled at the edges of his toast, and pulled back the covers. He drew a bath, slipped from his dressing gown and let himself soak just long enough to wash himself, and doze back into a state of sleep for a few minutes.

He got out, dried himself off, and wrapped the towel around his waist. He tried not to think about John as he ran another towel through his hair, drying the curls, and then combing through the tangles and pushing and pulling each strand until it sat just the way he wanted it to. He tried not to think about John as he rubbed lotion into his skin, and smelled each of his colognes before picking out the right one, and dabbing it along his collarbone, behind his ears, and just on either side of his adam’s apple.

Sherlock did his best not to think about John as he untied his towel, and put on his undergarments, and he tried not think about John as he slipped his arms into the sleeve of his shirt, and pulled on his trousers, tucking the shirt inside before he buttoned them. He was just getting to the buttoning of the rest of his shirt when there was a knock on his bedroom door.

One finger still across an ivory button, he opened it, and felt all of the breath leave his body when he saw John on the other side.

They didn’t say anything to each other; just stood there with the edge of the hallway and the bedroom between them, looking.

“Was there something you needed?” Sherlock finally asked. “I am a bit busy.”

John shook his head, pulling himself out of whatever fog had been cast over him. “I know, yes; big day. I just-I wanted to apologize for the other night; for throwing you out like that. It was a bit not good on my part.”

“Right. Apology accepted.” Sherlock said, and put his hand on the handle, ready to close it in John’s face.

“Wait-” John said, “Isn’t there something you want to apologize to me about?”

“Me? Apologize for what? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You called me a coward, Sherlock.”

“I’m not going to apologize for telling you a truth about yourself you would have rather not heard.”

“I’m not a coward!” John yelled, “You are!”

Sherlock reached across the threshold and grabbed hold of John’s collar, pulling him into the room, and kicking the door closed.

“I am not.” He spat back at him.

“Oh, is that why you’ve been hiding up here for weeks, watching out the window, but looking away every time you see me?”

Sherlock blushed, and looked away. “I didn’t know you had seen me.” he said; quiet and calm, and almost ashamed.

“Of course I did. Why wouldn’t you look at me, Sherlock?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

Sherlock was still holding onto the collar of John’s shirt, though his grip had loosened some. He could feel his breath across his face, he could hear his heart beating in the same erratic rhythm as his own. He licked his lips, and took in a sharp breath when John did the same. He wanted him, he needed him, and he was absolutely going to have him.

He tightened his fist in the fabric again and pulled John into him, crashing their bodies together. He pulled at the base of John's neck and captured his lips. John moaned at the contact, and his hands reached into the open folds of Sherlock's shirt.

" _Oh, God_. " Sherlock said.

He broke his lips away, and outstretched his neck. He used both of his hands to pull John against the taut skin, and held him there. John licked, and nipped and kissed.

"I'm sorry John, _I'm so sorry_." He said, as desperate as he felt.

"No. I'm sorry." John mumbled against Sherlock's skin. "I was jealous, and I was angry. But I love you-I _love_ you."

Sherlock brought John's head back level with his own and kissed him, "I love you too. God, I love you."

Sherlock' body was wracked with desire. It flooded his every nerve, coiled around them like the ivy took hold of the spindles on the gate outside. He let out something of a growl, and lifted John into the air, his hands placed carefully underneath his arse. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist, his arms around his neck.

Sherlock couldn't hold his weight for long, but he wasn't about to let go either. His writing desk was the closest surface, and he rested John on top of it, pushed him as far back as he could go.

John reached behind him when his back hit the wall behind the desk. He laughed, pulling out a pen that was leaking black all over his hand, and probably on the desk behind him. Sherlock laughed too, grabbed the pen and tossed it across the room where it hit against a section of hardwood and rolled underneath the bed.

The pen was soon forgotten when John's hands tugged at the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, smudging ink all over.

"Shit, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. I've got other shirts."

"But it's your wedding shirt-"

"Just take it off of me."

Sherlock put his hands over John's helping to undo the buttons and jerking the rest of it from inside his trousers. John mouth immediately went to his chest, running his tongue along Sherlock's skin, across the expanse of his pectoral muscles. He took one nipple into his mouth, and clamped his teeth down just enough for it to hurt.

Sherlock rolled his head back at the sensation.

John's body slid against the varnish on the desk, pushing his groin directly in lines with Sherlock's, and oh, that sensation; Sherlock had missed that. There was only so much friction he could create himself, and it was nothing like John could give him.

John wrapped his legs tighter around Sherlock's waist, pulling himself into his body as close as he could. Sherlock braced his hands on either side of him, and buried his head into John's shoulder.

"Oh, Christ John. I need you to- I need you to fuck me." **  
**

He ached all over, inside and out.

John lunged forward and pressed his lips against Sherlock's; brought his fingers to the flies of his trousers, pulling them down. Sherlock stepped out of them, and stood back when John released the grip of his legs.

John slid off from the desk and unbuttoned his own trousers. For a moment, as Sherlock stood fully nude in front of John for the first time, and John started to pull at the buttons of his shirt, the fervor and frenzy they had worked themselves into fell away. Sherlock watched with wide, eager eyes as John’s chest displayed itself inch by inch, and his eyes roamed over his skin looking for it.

John hesitated to take off his sleeves, and Sherlock stepped up to him, slid his hands underneath the open collar, and slipped the fabric off from his shoulders where it fell into the pool of fabric from the rest of their discarded clothes.

The scar was ugly and mangled; puffy and angry from days worth of infection and the painful prodding of medical instruments. John didn’t look at Sherlock as Sherlock stared at it, studied it; remembered it.

“Sherlock-” John said, “We don’t have a lot of time.”

“Yes, but it's just, your scar. It's beautiful.”

John finally brought his eyes back to Sherlock's, and he smiled.

The spell was broken then, and their unyielding need for each other took over. John turned Sherlock around and bent him over the desk. Never had he felt so exposed. He could feel himself trembling, the edges of the desk were digging into the palm of his hands where he was holding on.

He felt John’s lips against the base of his neck. They moved down along his spine, each vertebra catching underneath his tongue. Sherlock’s legs started to shake, and he buckled his knees to keep from falling. John's tongue traveled down into the cleft of Sherlock's arse, and then lower still.

There was no time and nothing within their reach to use, so John improvised the best he could with what he did have; his tongue. Over and over.

"Christ-oh God." Sherlock dropped his forehead against the desk with a bang.

John slid back up from where he was (painfully, most likely) kneeling on the floor. Sherlock nearly whimpered at the loss of John's tongue inside him and his lips around that most sensitive and forbidden of places. But the disappointment was soon forgotten as John placed a gentle kiss on his shoulder blades and lined himself up.

"It's going to hurt." John whispered into Sherlock's ear.

"I know. It's okay. Just please-"

John laughed, "I think this is the most I've heard you say please and actually mean it."

"Oh shut up, and fuck me already." Sherlock all but commanded and pushed back against John.

John laughed again, and braced himself on Sherlock's shoulders before pushing in. Sherlock screamed at the burning, blinding pain. If he didn't know any better, he would almost believe that he was crying.

The pace which John was keeping was erratic and unrelenting, driving Sherlock down into the surface of the desk. They both moaned and panted, and Sherlock wasn't even in reality anymore. Untouched, Sherlock was nearly there; the hot coil in the pit of his stomach unraveling.

"John, I-"

"I know love. I just need-" John thrust as deep as he could into Sherlock, " _Ahh.  Fuck!_ " He yelled, and stilled, pressing his hand hard into Sherlock's back.

Sherlock ground himself back into John, greedily taking what he needed despite the pain, and he too, came. They stayed together for a moment, John's body slumped over Sherlock's, before he finally pulled away.

Sherlock slowly stood up, and turned around. His chest was a disaster, stained with his own come and the ink that had spilled out across the desk. His right palm was bleeding, and his forehead was red. He looked thoroughly debauched.

John wasn't much better, his hand across his heart trying to catch his breath, and his weight shifted off from his bad leg.

"I only came up here to apologize." He said.

Sherlock grinned, "apology accepted"

They both laughed, and then quickly fell silent. Sherlock checked the time on his pocket watch, having picked it up from the floor.

"I have to get ready again." He said.

"Really? I thought the well fucked look would be perfect for saying your vows."

Sherlock didn't laugh, and instead shuffled into the gap that had grown between them.

"I want you to know-" he started, "that I will honor her and cherish her, and care for her as I am meant to, but I will not _love_ her. Not like I love you. I will be her husband, but I will _belong to you_."

John took Sherlock's hand in his own, "I know that, but I can't promise I won't forget from time to time."

"Then I'll just have to do well to remind you." Sherlock pressed a lopsided kiss to John's mouth.

"Best go now and ready yourself for your wedding." John said, pulling away, and trying to hide the sadness in his smile.

But Sherlock saw it.

He would always see it.

**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we've started dabbling in a few other areas, and decided to start a tumblr!  
> There will be videos (related and unrelated to our fics), and art (related and unrelated to our fics)
> 
> Also, some information about upcoming collaborations.  
> And some general Johnlock goodness.
> 
> Check it out- Give us a follow, and we'll follow back :)
> 
> http://firestorm-tales.tumblr.com/


	12. Kiss in the Snow

John tried to compose himself as well as he could. His posture stiffened as he nervously held his hands by his side. “Well, I’ll see you at the ceremony.”

“Yes, I suppose you will.”

Sherlock stared at the reflection in his mirror as he watched John’s somewhat conflicted expression leave the room. As Sherlock watched the door close behind him he let out a frustrated sigh, a sigh he felt like he was holding in forever.

He collected his clothes from the floor, discarding them into his dirty laundry for washing later. A sudden chill run down the back of his spine as his adrenalin gradually started to die down, bringing the world around him back into a form of reality.

Sherlock frustratedly clawed his fingers along the lines of his brow as he reached into his wooden chest where he pulled out an identical shirt and pair of pants. He climbed into the freshness of his clothes, enjoying their warmth for what felt like the first time in an eternity. Letting out another sigh, he hugged himself. The warmth of the fabric against the tenderness of his skin was invigorating. He felt like he could just stand there forever, hugging his abdomen as hid away from cruel curses of reality for just a little while longer.

These feelings eating away at the inside of his head and heart were slowly destroying him inch by inch. The war going on inside his mind was tormentous, he felt like each and every emotion which he was physically capable of ate away at him- driving him to the brink of insanity.

He inhaled a deep, worn out breath as he slowly exhaled out of his nostrils. The sound of his door opening was followed by a scraping sound. Sherlock spun on his feet coming face to face with his brother, Mycroft.

“The wedding is nearing, Sherlock. I do hope you’re relatively close to being ready.” He looked Sherlock’s exhausted body up and down in disgust. “My God..Look at you. Have you just woken up? Fix up that god forsaken hair of yours, it’s a mess. You will be a disgrace to our family if you’re at the end of the aisle looking like that. You will not degrade our families reputation in that manner. Now, finish getting ready for the ceremony.” He aggressively snapped.

Sherlock could feel his anger burning up inside of him. He furiously clenched his hands by his side, trying his hardest not to react to his older brother’s remarks. Mycroft simply shook his head, treading carefully out of the room until Sherlock could no longer visibly see him inside the reflection of his mirror. As soon as Mycroft was no longer in sight, Sherlock violently perforated the mirror in-front of him. It’s glass cracked into a million shards, shattering to the floor below. It’s broken shards reminded him of his heart- fragile, weak….broken.

The glass cut his knuckles causing blood to run down the front of his hand. It gently trickled to the floor as Sherlock watched his broken reflection become stained in red. He clenched his bloodied fist shut which caused the blood to smear along the lines of his fingers and seep into their every delicate detail. With his free hand he reached for an older shirt, rapidly wrapping it around his hand so it could absorb any and all blood which came out of his cuts.

Sherlock watched his pocket-watch ticking, each second drawing closer to his fate. He firmly clasped the watch within his palm as he staggered onto his feet. The relatively new shirt he had wrapped around his hand was now blood-soaked; he used his free one to scoop up his black blazer from the floor, shrouding it over his shoulders as he walked to the door.

Sherlock strode down the corridor of his wing, passing the guest room, bathroom and Redbeard’s room. He was soon met with the foyer of the manor where he saw their guests already starting to arrive.

Waiters began to roam the room offering their attendees finger food and champagne. The small bustle of people was already making Sherlock feel nauseated. Quietly he strode his way through the people, trying his hardest to disguise himself from any socialization. He was beginning to think that maybe he should of stayed inside his bedroom.

John stared from a distance, watching Sherlock fight his way through the sudden bustle of people. A confused expression became apparent across his face as his eyes met with Sherlock’s blood soaked bandage. Sherlock stormed out of the foyer and into the garden causing John’s eyes to eagerly follow.

Once Sherlock’s figure was out of sight, John strained himself to try and find him- anywhere. But he was gone.

The glass of champagne John held quickly broke as it dropped to the floor. The sound of the people talking disguised the sound of its breakage as John hastily fought his way through the slow growing crowd.

John pushed the manor doors open. His limp leg climbed down the small step leading into the snow covered garden, his eyes intensely surveyed his surroundings, trying to find Sherlock’s beautiful being in amongst the whiteness of the cold snow.

John’s feet dragged along the white grass as snow gently floated down into his coarse hair. The cane he held, walked by his side for support as John moved further into the Gardens isolation. The coldness suddenly struck him as his arms shivered for warmth, goosebumps forming along the hairs of his arms as he subconsciously held himself, struggling through the winter cold.

His feet came to a sudden halt as he stared at the large oak tree ahead. Sherlock’s lazy body sat against the firmness of the tree as it held his exhausted body upright. A smirk escaped John’s mouth as he limped over to Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes followed his progressive steps looking him up and down with ease.

“It’s cold out here.” John said as he loomed over Sherlock’s slouched body.

Sherlock lazily glanced up in silence as the snow continued to fall around them. “Brilliant deduction.”

John couldn’t help but stare at Sherlock’s bloodied bandage as it’s red moisture seeped into the snow it rested on. “I can’t leave you alone for five minutes.”

Sherlock clenched his blood stained hand as he stared up into John’s beautiful green eyes. They glimmered against the whiteness of the atmosphere as flakes continued to gently float into the strands of his hair.

“You know..I am a Doctor, Sherlock. You could of come and seen me about this.” He said while slowly easing himself down to the cold ground to be by Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock fondled with his bandage, trying slightly to avoid John’s contact- not because he didn’t want it, but because everything was just too confusing for him at the moment.

The feel of John’s hand touching his own caused him to flinch causing direct eye-contact with one another. “It was an accident.” He whispered through the cold air. The feel of John’s fingers slowly untying the red, coiled shirt caused him to hiss in sudden pain.

“Shh. It’s okay. Let me have a look.” John whispered in concern as he let the red shirt fall to the bloodied ground.

Sherlock’s hand was severely cut along his knuckles as his blood froze along the surface of his skin. He watched with intent as John thoroughly examined his hand, fingers caressing the surface of his cut with a gentle touch. “What did you do? This is pretty bad.” He said, somehow managing to coil his fingers between Sherlock’s and hold them there.

“I accidentally broke my mirror..”

“And do you care to tell me how you accidentally break a mirror?” John urged, waiting for an answer.

“I...I punched it. I-I didn’t mean for it to break..”

“Mm. Well, you better come inside so I can clean it. Your ceremony is soon.”

As John attempted to stand up onto his two feet he soon got pulled back down by a heavy force. He looked over his shoulder- Sherlock’s hand tightly grasped itself around his black blazer, bringing him back down to Earth.

“No. It’s fine. Leave it.”

“Sherlock...it needs cleaning.”

“I just want to stay out here for a little while longer. Please...stay with me.”

John’s green stared into Sherlock’s blue as their oceans of colour interlocked with one another. John lazily bowed his head, he felt Sherlock’s cold fingers slowly tilt it upwards. Their eyes met again, emotions telling a thousand words as not a word was spoken. Their faces hovered over one another as the cold snow continued to gently fall onto their bodies and the earth surrounding them.

“You look cold.” Sherlock quietly spoke along the rim of John’s mouth as he seductively stared at his lips.

“I am cold. But so are you.”

“Mhm. Correction- I was cold. But now that you’re here by my side, I haven’t felt warmer.”

Sherlock reached his hand behind John’s hair, slowly pushing his face onto his own. Their lips met in the winter as it’s majestic tranquility set the mood around them, causing Sherlock’s heart to flutter in undeniable desire.

John let out an exasperated breath as Sherlock’s teeth captured John’s bottom lip against his own. “Sh-sherlock..we shouldn't be doing this, your ceremony-”

“Oh, shut up. I don’t care about the ceremony.”

Sherlock placed his hands along John’s hip-bones, rubbing them in subtle circles which drove John insane. Their tongues slid over one another as they both fought the arousal's taking over their burning bodies.

“Shit. Sherlock..we really shouldn’t be doing this.”

“It’s already gone too far, John. You've already fucked me. You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”

Their lips suddenly stopped kissing one another as they remained idle, hovering in aching desire-one kiss was never going to be enough and a thousand being too many.

“What sort of a question is that? Of course you know the answer. I want you to know I am yours, and I will only be loyal to you- I love you. And what we done...I am in no way ashamed of it. I made you happy, and that’s exactly what I wanted.”

“John... you make me more than happy. When I’m with you, it feels like everything in reality just fades away- except you. Everything freezes when I’m with you, but somehow we’re still moving and that’s the only thing that matters.”

“Sherlock..your ceremony is in half an hour. You should be out there- not here. This day is for you and Irene..”

“And don’t you think I have been dreading this day?”

John’s hand held Sherlock’s tighter as he lovingly began stroking him along the softness of his knuckles. “I know you have.”

Sherlock rested his head on John’s shoulder as he felt his hand snake its way around the back of his neck. He pulled him in close to the side of his body as he held him tightly underneath the wing of his arm. “It’s okay, Sherlock. I promise you.”

* * *

 

The minutes passed far more quickly than they had anticipated. Sherlock reached into the pocket of his pants, grasping his pocket-watch tightly. “Time for battle.” He helplessly sighed, feeling his world crumble around him within mere minutes- falling to ruins.

He staggered onto his feet as he straightened out the bottom of his blazer, he gave a slight nod as he mentally adjusted himself to what was about to happen.

“Sherlock? Are you okay?” He heard John ask as he remained seated on top of the thin layer of snow.

“I’m okay as I’ll ever be.” Sherlock replied.

He anxiously gulped, feeling his chest constrict itself out of sheer nerves. He exhaled a deep breath, a breath he had felt like he was holding in for far too long. The feel of John’s hands softly caressing the surface of his skin startled him; it sent a jolt of emotion through his body as he became uncertain of the fear resonating underneath the flesh of his skin.

“Well..I shall see you at the ceremony.”

“Yes, you will. And I fully believe in you Sherlock. Just think of me, and I assure you everything will be okay.” John replied as he fruitlessly rubbed false heat into the softness of his skin.

“My dear, dear, John.” Sherlock agonizingly said as he thoroughly examined his every intricate detail. “I know you will always believe in me. You have shown your loyalty in every way possible. And listen to me, when I say this: I will never doubt you, and your trust is mine forever.” Sherlock bowed his head as he struggled to wrap his tongue around the next collection of words. “I will always love you, John. Please never doubt that. You are my one and my only.”

“I know I am. Now, you better go. People are going to start getting suspicious why they haven’t seen you all morning.”

A smirk appeared on Sherlock’s face as he gave the side of John’s cheek a subtle kiss. As he spun on the heels of his shoes he strode to the white Gazebo where he knew his fate would become sealed.


	13. The Only Vow

The battle had begun that morning the morning he rose out of bed, but now, standing in the gazebo where he had danced with John, where he had fallen in love with John, the real, bloody fight was about to begin.

Sherlock watched as Irene started to glide toward him, her dress as white as the snow that surrounded them. From the moment she arrived at the altar and took his hand in hers, the world became a blur. Everything was muddled that came out of the priests mouth, and he could only nod along, hoping it was the right move to make.

John stood near the gate, and Sherlock could see him, could see how miserable he was, how his face glistened in the winter sun from where tears had dried and frozen. Sherlock tried to smile at him, but he was sure it had been no use, because just as Irene started to speak, started to recite the vows she had been so eager to make, John closed his eyes for a brief moment, opened them, and unlocked the gate he had been leaning on.

Sherlock hesitated. He hadn't heard a word that Irene had said to him, and he couldn't remember what he was supposed to say back to her. How could he remember when he was watching John close the iron gate of the garden behind him as he left.

Of course John was going to leave; Sherlock had been a fool to think he would stay and watch

He felt Irene squeeze his hand, and it brought his attention back to her. He looked at her and smiled like he was supposed to; the sooner he got through it, the sooner it would be over.

"I-" he started, and then hesitated again.

He was sweating. It was nearly freezing outside, but he felt like he was on fire; like he was going to burn up and his ashes were going to fly far away.

There was a heavy sound from behind Irene. The gate was opening again, and John slipped gently through, a smile, less sad than Sherlock knew he felt, was along his lips, giving Sherlock permission; telling him that it was okay, and Sherlock felt like he could breathe again.

He straightened himself out, took a tighter hold of Irene's hand, and remembered everything he wanted to say.

"I'm not a man of words and poetry, so you'll have to excuse me, darling, for this being short and to the point, and never anywhere as lovely as anything you could say to me."

He carefully looked over Irene's shoulder, keeping his eyes on John, and saying every word to him rather than the woman who he was marrying.

"Love was not something I ever believed in, nor was it something I wanted to, but then I saw you, and that sparkle in your eyes, and I suddenly understood every word in every ridiculous poem I've read. Whether I wanted love or not, in that moment, I had it, and I haven't let go of since, nor will I ever. Nothing is going to be perfect for the two of us, but I promise that I belong to you, and that you belong to me, and that's how it's going to be; forever and always."

John nodded, saying that he understood, and Sherlock watched him unlock the gate once again, and slip away as easily as he had come, and disappear again.

Sherlock was back in his daze, not hearing the words that were being spoken just in front of him, but rather just a muffle of sound buzzing through his ears. He wasn't even aware that the ceremony had finished until he felt Irene's lips press against kissed back, but there was no emotion there; just the automatic duty of a new husband.

They clasped their hands together, and stepped down from the gazebo, and followed the aisle into the ballroom. it was decorated with silver ribbons and candles to give a beautifully dim glow. The doors were closed behind them to give the couple a moment just to breathe, and to be together.

Irene ran her fingers through Sherlock's hair, and kissed him gently, "We could skip this." she said.

"I think people would notice if we weren't at our own reception."

"But would you care?" she asked, kissing him again.

"We'll stay. For just a little while."

He took her hands in his own. They were so small and delicate, not at all like the hands he had been holding onto earlier underneath the tree. Those hands were strong, and defiant.

The doors opened, and a flood of people poured inside. It was overwhelming to say the very least, but Sherlock held his own, and greeted each and every one of them with a handshake or a kiss to the cheek. He drank more champagne and wine than he ever had in his life, and he danced, and danced. He almost was having a good time, as long as he didn't stop to think about it.

"Sherlock, darling, take me home." Irene whispered into his ear as they held onto each other.

Home sounded wonderful.

Sherlock nodded his head and pulled her in thought before letting go of her completely. They slipped away with no goodbye, got into a car and Sherlock drove them into the city to the flat on Baker Street.

It wasn't near the grandeur of the manor or even the home Irene had grown up in, but it's modesty was why Sherlock had chosen it.

They got out of the car, and Sherlock unlocked the door, and led Irene inside and up the stairs.

"Your doing?" She asked, running her fingers along the petals of a vase of roses.

"I'm afraid not. They are lovely though."

Sherlock turned the gas on for the lamps on the wall, bringing a bit of light into the room.

"Do you want some tea or a brandy?" He asked.

"No. I think I'd just like to go to bed."

"Yes, it's been a long day. I'll just-"

Irene stopped him by placing her finger up against his lips, "I'd like to go to bed with you."

Oh.

Well, of course she did. It was their wedding night. Sherlock had been putting off all of her advances, promising her this night. He couldn't put it off for the rest of their lives.

"Yes. Right. Okay then."

He took her hand and they walked together through the kitchen, down a small hallway and into the bedroom. He lit a light in there, and closed the door. When he turned, Irene was sitting down on the bed. She had taken the pins out from her hair and her curls cascaded down her shoulders. She had her eyes lowered, as if she was nervous to look at her new husband, but he knew that it was just an act. Irene had deduced that Sherlock was chivalrous about sex; modest and maybe a bit shy, and she was acting the same to make him feel more at ease. Of course, she was wrong, but he wouldn't ever correct her.

Sherlock took in a deep breath, and walked slowly around the bed. He pressed his knees into the mattress and walked up to her. He reached out for the buttons on the back of her dress, and slowly slipped each one from its hook, revealing her paper white skin underneath. He pushed the fabric off from her shoulders, and pressed a gentle kiss to each one.

"Sherlock, have you-"

Sherlock didn't need her to finish the question, and had she asked him just hours earlier, the answer would have been no. It wasn't that he hadn't been given the opportunity, it was just that he had no interest in the women who had interest in him- he had no interest in anyone until John.

"No." He told her.

"Neither have I."

That was as much of a lie that he had just said.

"Good. Then we can navigate this together."

He whispered, and pushed her dress down her arms, slipping them out from the lace sleeves. He gently laid her down, and tugged at the skirt, until he could set the dress on the floor.

He towered over her, one leg on either side of her thighs, and watched as she started to tremble just a little bit. It could have been from the cold. Perhaps he should have started a fire- it would have been romantic. But for as gentle and loving as Sherlock was trying to be, he only wanted it to be over, so that he could get to John.


	14. Sex and Betrayal

Irene laid underneath him- exposed. The only thing covering her up was the white lace underwear she wore. He gently rested his hands on the structure of her hipbones, staring seductively into her eyes as she stared back at him.

“Do you know how long I have been waiting for this night?” She softly whispered.

"Yes. My apologies it took so long.”

Irene propped herself up onto her elbows. Her nose almost brushed against Sherlock’s skin as she rose the padding of her finger to the tenderness of his lips. “Hush now. Don’t speak. It’s okay.”

Sherlock didn’t say a word, instead he put a mild hold across the firmness of her back. He gently lowered her back down onto the mattress as she smiled at the motion. Her body was practically sprawled open over the expanse of the mattress.She waited for Sherlock’s body to capture hers, finally taking her in the most intimate way possible.

Sherlock gulped, trying not to look fearful in a sense. Yes, she did look beautiful- she always looked beautiful; but he, in no way felt a romantic attachment towards her in anyway, he prefered to view Irene as an artwork- beautiful to look at, but touching strictly prohibited. But, it was fairly obvious, that rule was going to become broken.

He maneuvered his hands around the softness of her back, reaching for her bra-strap.He slowly unhooked the lace covering her breasts as he carefully pushed her shoulder straps down the length of her arms. The way her bra glided off her body sent a shudder down his spine, an emotion he wish he couldn’t feel.

Throughout the night, Sherlock wanted to act robotic inside himself. He simply wanted to do what had to be done, with no emotions attached- he wanted to let his every emotion float away like a balloon, but tie the invisible string to his finger so he could pull them back down at any given time.

Sherlock knew he would give Irene pleasure like he was supposed to, because that was his duty as a good husband, but this was just a job to him- an obstacle.

The feel of Irene’s fingers clawing their way against the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, pulled him out of his tangent mind.

“Now, you can’t just stop there..” She sulked as she pouted her lips in enticement.

Sherlock faintly smirked as he gingerly lowered his body onto hers. He pushed a reassuring kiss onto the silkiness of her lips which caused her to moan, subconsciously threading her fingernails through the strands of his hair.

“Don’t worry. I had no intentions on stopping there.” He whispered through her brunette curls.

Irene gave out a faint chuckle as she felt Sherlock’s hands move down the sides of her body. They fondled with the her elastic waist as he delicately began removing her underwear from the expanse of her body. Fingers lightly entwined themselves around her lace as he guided them down the surface of her legs, they eventually fell to her ankles, exposing what could possibly be the most intimate part of her body.

Sherlock exhaled a deep breath, preparing himself mentally for what he was about to do. Just as he was about to lift himself from the bed to take off his pants he felt Irene’s fingers grasp themselves around the waist of his trousers. He looked down, watching as she slowly fondled with the crotch of his pants. She popped open the button holding his material together while guiding them down his thighs.

Sherlock rested his hands on-top of hers, slowly following her every movement as she reached into the black underwear he wore. He slightly flinched from the sudden coldness of her hands as they gently sat on his groin, rubbing small but prominent circles in a rhythmic motion.

Sherlock tried his hardest to resist the sensations flowing through his body. Oh, he tried so god damn hard. But, he couldn’t. The feel of Irene’s touch sent him overboard as he aggressively clawed his fingers through her hair. She let out a pleasurable moan as Sherlock pushed her body against his.

“I love you, Sherlock.” She said, as she frantically began ripping the white material from the expanse of his chest. “I love you so much.” She repeated.

Without even thinking, Sherlock opened his mouth against Irene’s, breathing a subtle breath inside. “I love you too.”

Irene pushed her hands further down his underwear, the coldness of her grasp forced Sherlock to arch his back out from the impression. “Shh. It’s okay. Relax.” She whispered along his bare skin.

Sherlock obeyed her orders as he slouched his body. He embraced her touch as her hand gently creeped its way down his cock- she rubbed his gradually hardened mass up and down with soft, gentle strokes. 

“F-fuck.” He groaned as he bit his bottom lip, trying not to let his temporary emotions get the better of him.

Sherlock tried not to let these flooding sensations get the better of him, but, he couldn’t help it. It just felt so bloody good. Even though this pleasurable encounter with Irene was sending his mind ballistic, he couldn’t stop thinking about John, and how, he was now betraying him.

Hands were going crazy over each-other as they desperately tried to leave their essence over each-others skin. Irene’s firm hold around Sherlock’s hardened cock moved faster with time, her hands became more demanding and precise with every repeated motion she made.

“Sherlock..I want you.” She paused for a moment as she felt Sherlock’s teeth capture her lip inside his mouth. “I-I want you inside of me.”

“Shh. Patience, Irene” He whispered in return. “I will be soon enough.”

“S-Sherlock.. p-please.”

Sherlock suddenly broke away from their heavy, heated kiss. He planted his fingers inside the rim of his pockets, maneuvering his body so he could pull his pants off with ease. They fell to the floor as Sherlock kicked the coiled material away from his legs, only leaving his black underwear behind.

He slowly slithered his way over Irene’s body as he forced her to lower herself back down onto the firm mattress. His body loomed over her as she gave out a devious smile, causing him to chuckle in return.

Without hesitation he ripped the black underwear away from his body. As he threw them away, they landed in amongst the pool of clothing on the ground. “Are you ready?” He asked, trying his utmost to ignore his aching erection.

“Y-yes. I’m ready. Oh god, I’m ready.”

Sherlock lowered his head down onto Irene’s before making his move. He planted a subtle kiss onto the rim of her lips as he slowly moved his way into her entrance. The feeling of Sherlock’s cock gradually moving inside her, caused her to tense up as she arched her back from the million sensations flickering through her body as a whole.

“Jesus Christ.” She managed to say through gritted teeth.

As she tried to adjust her somewhat uncomfortable body through the erratic motions Sherlock was giving her, she felt a tender hand gently caress the surface of her cheek. “It’s okay. If you want me to stop- I will.”

“N-no..don’t stop...don’- Oh god.”  

Irene’s fingers clenched the bed-sheet underneath her as she felt Sherlock’s body thrust against hers. The more she opened up for him, the deeper he went. He clawed the bed-sheet above her shoulders to keep him upright as he heightened his speed. Intense pleasure took over Irene’s body as she restlessly shook her head against the softness of the bed-sheet he dominated her on.

“Sherlock-” Her breath suddenly got taken away as she let out another moan. The way Sherlock’s cock continued to hit her in all the right places sent her mind into overdrive.

Her vocal chords were practically stolen as she struggled to speak, she could only let out moans of satisfaction as Sherlock continued to thrust himself in and out of her.

For what seemed like the first time that night, Sherlock groaned at the feeling of himself inside of Irene. He could feel his hard cock hit her in all the right ways which sent him overboard. “Shit. I’m close.” He said as he stared at Irene’s flustered face.

“I know you are. Just, please..hurry.” She begged as she felt her body contort itself into uncomfortable positions.

Sherlock gave out one final, hard thrust, and before he knew it, it was all over. He had come while still inside of Irene, which forced her to shudder at the sensation as she let out one last powerful cry of passion.

Sherlock’s brain finally caught up with his hot, heated actions. He could barely hold himself up as he slumped over Irene’s exhausted body. His exasperated breaths hit the surface of her skin as he buried his head inside the crevice of her neck.


	15. Closer...Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my friends. Have we hurt you; left you a little bit heartbroken?  
> Well, it's alright now. I'm here to start cleaning out your wounds and put on the band-aid.  
> -mk

“Do you need to go?” John asked.

He was running his hands through Sherlock’s hair as they lie together side by side in the small bed of John’s apartment. It had been three weeks since the wedding, and barely a day went by that Sherlock didn’t spend at least a moment with John. Whether it was a stolen kiss as John shoveled the snow from the drive and the walking paths in the garden, or a quick feel of each other’s bodies in the shed where the tools were kept, or a night like this one, where he was able to slip away and spend a few hours forgetting the rest of the world existed beyond the two of them.

He hadn’t told John about his wedding night, though John had asked on several occasions. Sherlock assumed that John knew the answer. He wasn’t a stupid man, and Sherlock could have come clean; he wanted to come clean, but he didn’t want to break John’s heart anymore than he already was.

“No.” Sherlock answered. “Irene is with her parent’s. Her mother has been ill. She hasn’t been feeling well herself either, and apparently no matter how old you are. ‘ a girl needs her mother when she’s ill’.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m not. Not if it means I can spend this time with you.”

John shook his head at Sherlock, and took his hand from his curls to run his fingers down the length of his face and across his bottom lip. Sherlock closed his eyes, and let the feeling of John’s exploration wash over him, and let everything else melt away.

“Would you like to read?” John asked.

His lips had very suddenly found their way to Sherlock’s neck, and they tickled against the thin skin there as he spoke.

“Actually, I thought that I could play you some music. If you’d like.”

“Oh. You brought your violin?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t bring my piano.”

John laughed, and kissed Sherlock’s cheek as he slipped out from underneath the covers, and set his feet to the floor. It was cold, and Sherlock hadn’t bothered to dress since their second session of love-making took place that afternoon. He picked up his case, gently pulled out the violin and carried it over to the fireplace, soaking the heat up into his thighs and his bare behind.

He tucked the instrument between his shoulder and his chin, cradling the neck as he might cradle John to sleep.

“Any requests?” he asked.

John sat up in the bed, the sheet falling to rest in his lap and expose his chest. He shook his head, and nestled into the pillow behind him.

“Good, because I already have something I’d like to play for you.”

Sherlock smiled, and he shut his eyes. He placed the bow to the string, and drew out the first few notes in quiet, calm succession. He had spent months working out the right tempo and the right order of which to turn his feelings into music. Sherlock swayed back and forth on his feet. The melody was simple, at least it sounded simple to the ears, but if someone was to look at the notes they would see that it was complex, and intricate, much like the man who had inspired it.

It was slow, and it was deep, and as Sherlock neared the end, he opened his eyes to find John’s transfixed on him, and his hand wavered against the bow. He fumbled on a few notes, but John didn’t seem to notice, and so Sherlock didn’t care.

“That was beautiful. I’ve never heard it before.” John said, when Sherlock lowered the instrument to his side.

“There’s no reason you should have. I wrote it, and it isn’t finished.”

“You wrote that?”

“Yes. For you. I started it the night I met you, the night I was too afraid to kiss you.”

“I was afraid too.”

Sherlock set down the violin, and climbed back into the bed. He slid as close to John as possible, stealing all of his warmth and his comfort.

“It’s something to be afraid of. This love of ours.” he said.

“Would you ever leave her?” John asked. “You don’t love her, and her family name is already restored along with a great deal of their wealth…”

“But what would you and I do if I were to leave her? Don’t you think my family would find it a bit odd that I suddenly decided to move in with our gardener; become a bachelor rather than stay married to a beautiful woman who adores me far more than I deserve?”

“We can go away. To Paris, to Venice, to Berlin; I don’t care where, but someplace that isn’t here, and someplace I can be with you.”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s temple, “It’s a nice thought.” he said.

“But only a thought." John said, quietly.

Sherlock pushed the covers away, and moved so that he was sitting on John's lap, facing him.

"I love you."

"I know." John said back to him. "And don't think that I'm not happy. I am."

"But you could be happier?"

"I have never felt about anyone the way that I feel about you- not even close. So, if to be with you means that I have to sacrifice some things I would rather have, then I will. For the rest of my life."

Sherlock leaned down and captured John's lips, "you're a good man John Watson. Far better than me."

John's hands gripped at Sherlock's hips, pulling him forward into his body, and Sherlock tipped his head forward to rest on John's shoulder as a soft sigh escaped his lips. John's fingers brushed against Sherlock's jaw line and coaxed him to lift his head back up for a slow, gentle kiss.

Sherlock had been there since the morning after sending Irene off in one of their cars with two bags. She kissed Sherlock goodbye, promising to be home in by the end of the week. Once she had gone, he fixed Redbeard to his leash, and took the other car on his own over to John's

He had put blankets down on John's small sofa for Redbeard to sleep as he and john drank tea, and nibbled on a cake Sherlock brought with him. The late breakfast didn't last long before Sherlock was flat on his back across the table, his legs wrapped around John's waist.

Sherlock appreciated that John's apartment was in the basement, and was art the end of a long hallway, with no one else around, because John had a terrible habit of making Sherlock scream. From there, they had fallen asleep (in the bed, thankfully, and not on the table). A couple of hours later Sherlock had situated himself between John's legs, setting his mouth to work and wake him up.

And now, Sherlock was still in John's lap, rocking back and forth to meet with John's thrusts, both his hands wrapped around John's shins, and his head thrown back to the ceiling.

"You're too far away, Sherlock. Come closer. Please."

John scrambled his hands around Sherlock and brought him in close. Sherlock pushed his chest into John's, buried his head into his neck, and mouthed between his throat and his shoulder.

"Close isn't close enough." Sherlock said, his lips still clinging to John's skin.

"No. It isn't"

John pulled him in even closer, almost painfully so, crushing their bodies together. Sherlock brought his lips to John's; hard and desperate. He held John's face in his hands as they both neared yet another climax.

Sherlock was fairly certain that even crawling into John's skin wouldn't be close enough for the two of them, but they held on as tight as they could, fingernails digging into soft flesh, moans being trapped in one another's mouth. His life, the one he showed to the world, the one he was, for some reason honestly trying to maintain, meant nothing, didn't even exist, had no reason to exist as long John was with him.

Sherlock fell backwards, legs still twisted around John, and came with the scream that he knew he would. John gave one more awkward thrust before he came too, and together they laid, feet to head, catching their breath.

“Paris.” Sherlock said.

“What?”

“I prefer Paris. Montmartre to be exact. My family has a flat there, haven’t used it in years. If we were to go, which I’m not saying we are, I would like to go to Paris.”

John brushed his toe against Sherlock’s cheek, Sherlock turned his head and kissed at it.

“Mmm. I like Paris too.” he said.

**  
  
  
  
  
**


	16. Different Eyes, Different Emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a very short chapter (sorry!) But, I hope you enjoy it anyway ^_^   
> -firestorm26c

The week finished faster than it had started. Sherlock and John had spent nearly every-day together. At the end of each night, it would always result in the same situation- the both of them in bed together, exhausted and sprawled over each-other in pleasure.

But, now it was time for Sherlock to go back to Baker Street as he waited for Irene’s return. She will never know where he had been for the past week, as far as she knows, Sherlock had been at Baker Street the entire time. And that’s how he wanted to keep it.

As Sherlock stood outside the door of Baker Street, he unlocked it. The room smelt musty and neglected as he walked over to the window and pulled back the curtains. The sunlight beamed inside, suddenly awakening the room as if it had been hibernating for a week.

Fingers gently caressed the glass window as he pulled it open, letting the fresh air flow freely throughout the room. He let out a somewhat exhausted sigh as he watched a black car pull up to the curb.

A driver climbed out of the car before opening the passenger door. Sherlock watched from the window as Irene made herself apparent. He soon adjusted himself to the loving, supporting husband in which Irene would be expecting.  

As he walked outside to greet her, he was soon met with a dazzling,  luminous smile. Her white teeth shone through her red lipstick like the stars would shine through the galaxy. Her smile suddenly became contagious- just looking at her caused the corners of Sherlock’s mouth to curl up into a beaming grin. But he knew, inside himself that this was all an act, but he was adamant to keep that from Irene.

Sherlock knew he would continue to do what he must to keep both of his lives in separate worlds. He knew that once he was done in one, he must lock the door behind him and walk into the other as a different man.

Before Sherlock knew it, his footsteps had soon met with Irene’s; their smiles beamed off one another as they gazed into each-others eyes for what felt like the first time in months.

Sherlock gently moved his hands along Irene’s waist as he slipped his hands underneath the shirt she wore. Fingers slowly ghosted their way down the expanse of her bare skin as he felt Irene’s lips plant a deep, heart-filled kiss onto the tenderness of his.

Sherlock returned the motion as he brought his hands up to meet with her dark, brunette curls. Their noses brushed against one another as her smile continued to illuminate the world around them.  

“I have missed you so much.” She whispered.

“I’ve missed you more.”

Irene bit her bottom lip as their mouths continued to flutter over one another. Irene could feel Sherlock’s warm breath cascade into hers which sent her overboard.

“You know...we haven’t seen each-other in a week.” She began as she moved her fingers along the waist of Sherlock’s pants. “And..well, it has been four weeks since-”

“I know.” Sherlock soon interrupted, not needing to hear the rest of her sentence.

“Well, if you’re in the mood...maybe tonight we can make love.”

Sherlock gulped at the words that just rolled off her tongue with such ease. He slightly bowed his head against hers as he felt a sudden knot tie itself inside the pit of his stomach as he struggled to spit out a reply.

“We shall see my love. But, first of all, how are you feeling? And how is your Mother? I do worry greatly about the two of you.”

“My Mother, she is doing better I think. And as for myself, I am perfectly fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Of course I worry about you. You’re my wife.”

“And you are my Husband. And I know I can always trust you, no matter what.”

Irene planted another kiss onto Sherlock’s lips as her fingernails gradually traced down Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock didn’t reply, instead he just embraced the feel of her touch against his.

She soon broke away from their intimacy as she held Sherlock’s hands. “I’m going to go inside and have a nice, warm shower. You’re welcome to join me if you like.” She enticed.

Sherlock watched from outside as his wife strolled inside their apartment. As he looked over his shoulder he saw that both the car and driver were gone, only leaving Irene’s luggage on the curb for collection.

As Sherlock opened the door with her luggage he simply dumped her bags on the floor. His footsteps soon paced the ground in uncertainty as he awaited Irene’s return. Steam leaked out of the bathroom door, heating up the atmosphere he stood in as he placed his steepled fingers underneath his chin.

The way Sherlock walked the room made him nervous, almost anxious to an extent. The guilt he was feeling finally started to kick in as it ate away at his every brain cell. This tormentous war he was continually fighting inside his mind was finally starting to take a toll on him.

Sherlock’s steepled fingers soon broke position as he heard the sound of Irene’s shower come to a halt. He hesitantly peered up to the bathroom door where he saw her figure slouching against its wooden frame.

She was wearing a white woolen bath-robe as she wrapped her wet hair inside the comfort of a towel. She smiled freely as Sherlock watched, gazing her body up and down.

“Mm. You have missed me.” She said.

“Of course I have.”

“No, but I mean more than usual. I can tell. Your eyes...they’re different.”

Sherlock could only look to the floor. He knew exactly what she was talking about, but her theories were wrong- he didn’t miss her. The glimmer he held inside his irises didn’t come from Irene, like she had hoped. They came from John Watson- he was the only person who would ever be able to put that certain sparkle into his eyes, he was definite of that now.


	17. Stay. Run. Love

Afternoon tea at the manor had become quite commonplace for Sherlock and Irene. She would sit and gossip with his mother, and he would pretend to listen to his father as he spoke about the business he was still trying to groom Sherlock for. But Sherlock paid none of them any real attention; he barely paid his tea and finger sandwiches any attention either. Sherlock was only there to watch John.

With the winter upon them, his parents had given him menial tasks around the interior of the home; anything from polishing the brass fixtures to repairing cracks in the walls or tears in the furniture.

Currently, John was tightening the screws on the legs of the buffet that had sat against the wall of the dining room for years. Sherlock did his best not to watch the way John’s shirt clung to his spine and stretched along his back the way he was bent down on one knee, and curved almost all the way forward. He tried not to think about how he knew exactly what that body looked like underneath, in almost that exact position.

He took almost everything he had to not lunge from the table and push him right to the floor. Not only was love something Sherlock had never any interest in, but sex was not either. He had never looked at someone, male or female, and thought that he wanted to see them naked, that he wanted to touch the intimate places on their bodies. No one had ever kindled that flame before.

There was suddenly a kind of commotion, and Irene was standing from her chair, and John was standing from the floor. Sherlock pulled his attention to his wife, reached a protective hand to touch her elbow.

“Are you alright?” He asked.

Irene nodded her head, though she looked anything but alright. Her tea had hardly been drunk, and her sandwich was untouched.

“I think I should go lie down.” she said.

Elizabeth raised her hand into the air and motioned for John to come near to the table. Sherlock watched as he did.

“John, do you think you could bring Irene up to Sherlock’s bedroom?”

“Of course Mrs. Holmes.” he said.

He pulled Irene’s chair away from her, and slipped his arm underneath hers to keep her steady on her feet. Sherlock could see that he was trying not to look at him, that he was trying not to show how uncomfortable he really was.

He led her away, you the stairs and into the bedroom where he pulled down the sheets.

John laid Irene down in Sherlock’s bed, and pulled the covers up over her chest.

“Is there anything I can get you Mrs. Holmes?” he asked, stuttering on her name for a moment.

“No. I just need to rest.”

“Sherlock mentioned that you haven’t been feeling well the last couple of weeks. What seems to be the trouble?”

Irene’s eyebrows quirked up, “I wasn’t aware that you and Mr. Holmes were on a casual acquaintance to be discussing me, nor to be using his first name.”

 

Shit.

 

“I- he told me once to call him Sherlock. I guess I must have listened. And as for us discussing you, it was something he mentioned in passing. I think he was worried, and just wanted someone to listen. I was the closest one to him.”

“I see.”

 **"** If you’d like to tell me how you’ve been feeling- I did used to be a doctor.”

“It’s nothing. A bit dizzy when I stand up too fast, a bit sick to my stomach- don’t have much of an appetite I suppose, but who can in these dresses?”

Irene laughed, but John didn’t. He was fairly certain that he knew what was wrong with Mrs. Holmes.

"I'm going to suggest that you make an appointment to see your physician." He said.

"Why? is something wrong with me?"

"Not at all. But I do believe that you're going to have a child."

John did his best to smile, but he was sure that it was beyond ill-fated.

"If you'll excuse me."

He closed the door and shuffled back to the dining room as quickly as he could.

"Ahh, John." Sherlock said when he came back, "Is she alright?"

"Yes. She did request to see you though."

Sherlock nodded, and wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. He pushed out his chair, and started for the stairs. He noticed that John was following him.

“She doesn’t want to see me, does she?” he asked.

John shook his head and wrapped  his hand around Sherlock’s bicep, pulling him into a cupboard that they passed in the hallway.

“Can you get away tonight?” John asked, closing the door behind them.

“I’m not sure. Are you alright?”

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Tell me now.”

“This isn’t the kind of thing to tell you hidden away in your parent’s cupboard.”

“John. You have me worried, and I can’t say for certain I can see you tonight, so please, just tell me now.”

John took in a deep breath, and closed his eyes as he exhaled.

“I was speaking to Irene about her illness, and everything she described- Sherlock, I think she might be pregnant. No, I’m almost certain of it.”

Sherlock stared at John. He had no idea what to say, or what he even should think.  Pregnant. How could Irene be pregnant? Well, of course he knew how, but it wasn't supposed to happen. Sherlock was not meant to be a father. He couldn't be.

And John. What about John? He doesn't ask him to stand in the shadows and watch his lover have a family; raise one child and then another. He had already sacrificed so much, Sherlock couldn't dare ask him to sacrifice anymore.

Sherlock's head was still spinning when the door opened. Both men turned at the sudden intrusion, afraid that they had been caught.

"Honestly, Sherlock. In mother's cupboard?"

Mycroft stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Sherlock didn't even know that he arrived or that he was coming at all.

"We were only having a conversation." Sherlock said.

"Yes. I see."

"Wait." John said, "You're brother knows about us?"

I'm afraid so."

"You told him, then?"

"Relax. He won't tell anyone."

"Don't worry yourself Mr. Watson. Your secret is safe with me. Now, if I may have a word alone with my brother."

"Yes, of course."

John shimmied his way out of the closet, and turned back before he left. "Please find me as soon as you can. This conversation isn't done."

"I will."

Sherlock watched John leave, and then gave his attention to his brother.

"Your parents are downstairs. Your wife is only two doors down. Have you gone mad?"

"Are you disappointed in me brother? Disappointed that I'm in love with a man?"

Mycroft sighed.

"No, Sherlock. I am not disappointed that you are in love with another man- that's your business. If I'm disappointed about anything, it's that you've fallen in love at all. For all your intelligence, I don't understand how you can see that as a viable option in today's world."

"Today's world is going to change, just as it always has. Our politics, our science, our virtues. There will be another revolution, another great revelation, to make us question everything. But no revolution, no discovery, no uprising will ever change the way that I feel about John. And that isn't logic, Mycroft; it isn't meant to be."

"That's all fine and good, but this is how you're going to spend your life? Hiding in cupboards? I've no doubt that he loves as you well, but he would be a fool to allow this arrangement to continue."

"I know that."

"Then what are you going to do about it?"

"The right thing."


	18. The Ivory Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here is the chapter you have all been waiting for- The final chapter of "The Ivy of the Burning Winter." Please do enjoy it, and I hope your fragile hearts are in one piece by the end of this. :) 
> 
> -firestorm26c

John slowly lowered the rim of his tea-cup from his mouth as he assertively stared at Sherlock who sat across from him. "So have you decided what you're going to do yet?" He asked.

"I decided long ago."  

“Mm. And what conclusion have you come to?" John asked as he paused for a moment, slowly lowering his tea cup to its saucer. "I want you to know that whatever your decision may be, I will be supportive of it."  

Sherlock gave John a faint smile as he placed his teacup onto the coffee table. He lazily rose himself from the chair he sat on so he could be by John's side. As Sherlock pushed his chest against John's shin he knelt down onto one knee, looking him directly in the eyes. "I know you will, John."  

They continued to stare at one another as Sherlock felt the warmth of John's hand slowly rub against his. "And, I also know, I have two very different options." Sherlock said as he clasped his hands tighter around John's. He gently weaved his fingers in and out of his as if they were dancing with each-other. "These options do not come to me lightly. And the decision I had to make was even harder.."  

Before Sherlock was given the chance to speak another word, he felt the roughness of John's fingers gingerly brush along his chin as he gradually tilted it up. "Shh. It's okay, Sherlock. You don't have to say it. You're going to be a Father. I wouldn't expect you to runaway with me. Not now."  

Sherlock’s faint snicker hit the air as he felt John's fingers thread themselves through his curls. "John, you're acting like you already know what my choice is."  

"Well, of course I do-"  

"No, you don't." Sherlock swiftly intervened. "I can assure you, no one is ever going to keep me away from you. Pregnant wife or not."  

"Sherlock...your child is going to need a Father.."  

"And if that time is to ever come. Than we shall cross that bridge when we come to it."  

Sherlock softly rested his face against the firmness of John's knee as he spoke. "So, will you runaway with me, John? Will you come away with me and never look back?"

John slowly lowered his mouth onto the softness of Sherlock's cheek before dragging his lips into the crevice of his jaw-line. "I think you already know the answer." He said as his warm breath brushed against his skin.  

Sherlock let out a soft moan in pleasure at the feel of John's teeth nuzzling along his jawline.  "Well, go and pack. We shall be leaving for Paris momentarily."  

John's mouth seductively glided its way up and down the expanse of Sherlock's neck. "Really? So soon? I thought maybe we could delay our trip for an hour." He said while practically licking the invisible goosebumps off his skin.

The temptation shot through Sherlock like a bullet as he painfully tilted his head so their lips were aligned with one another. They could feel their arousals coming off each other with their every breath. "I-I can't. I'm sorry. The sooner we get away from here, the better. I cannot give Irene the time to tell me she is pregnant. Because if I do, what does that make me?"  

John didn't say a word, instead he slowly brought his face out of his neck and gave him a subtle kiss on the side of his cheek. "Do what you must, Sherlock. When you're ready to leave, you know where to find me."  

Sherlock nodded as he rose onto his two feet, still fondling with John's grasp within his own, as they both struggled to actually find the strength to let go.  "I must go now, John. I will be back for you as soon as I can."  

"I know you will be."

Sherlock's hand grasped the doorknob as he peered over his shoulder; he stared at John for what would be the final time before their departure.  

"I love you, John." Sherlock said as he opened the door.  

"I love you too." John replied with a smile.                          

* * *

 The drive back home to the manor was excruciating. Sherlock could feel his stomach tying itself into knots as he subconsciously fondled with the ivory envelope in the palm of his hands.

He gazed out his window as the black car pulled up the driveway. As he looked at the manor for what would be his final time, it felt like every childhood memory he has ever known suddenly flashed by before his eyes. Most of Sherlock's childhood memories consisted of him and Redbeard together, running along the garden floor. Redbeard, after all, was his best friend, and he knew nothing was going to change that....ever.

Oh, these gardens had such a different meaning all those years ago. Never did Sherlock think in a million years that he would be staring at these beautifully manicured plants, thinking about his lover.  

As he slowly made his way around the manor, he came to the outside of his wing. He slipped into the back entrance as he tried to make his presence as unnoticeable as physically possibly. The door gently closed with a creak as Sherlock tip-toed into his bedroom; he delicately placed the crisp envelope onto his bed with a soft touch as he felt guilt finally starting to sink in.

Suddenly he heard footsteps approaching from the corridor. He hastily made his decision to depart the building as quickly as possible. As he quietly sneaked out of the room, he shut the door behind him, acting as if he had never been there.  

He watched from a distance as he peered through the Ivy. It dominated the glass window as it blocked him out of sight as a whole but he could still manage to peer through its dominance, and watch his Mother pick up the envelope he had left behind on his bed, and watch her open it. 

* * *

_To my dearest Parents and Irene,_

_I have regret to inform you, that if you are reading this letter, I have left London and I have no intentions on ever coming back._

_I have never loved Irene and I am afraid I never will. I cannot pretend to be someone I am not for any longer. I understand if you are disappointed in me and I apologize if I have hurt your feelings in any possible way. Please do forgive me. I can assure you that this was not my intention at all._   
  
_Please, do give Mycroft my best wishes and thank him for me._   
  
_Love from,_

_Sherlock._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you so much for all the love we have gotten. It is all greatly appreciated and without you amazing readers, we wouldn't be where we are now. 
> 
> Now, I suppose you're wondering "What now?" Well, it is my pleasure to inform you- we will be writing a SEQUEL! It will be titled "The Tears of the Lilac Rain." So please do keep an eye out for it. :) Once we begin, we will post a link right here for direct access. 
> 
> But, before we get to all of that good stuff (and just to keep you guys in suspense for a bit longer) We have decided to collaborate on yet, another fic! It will be VERY different to what you have read here, and also a bit twisted. If you want to fly away with us, and keep up to date with our third collaboration together- It will be titled " The Mosaic of Mastery: A Dark Symphony." 
> 
> Thank-you so much again our loyal followers <3 We shall meet again very soon.  
> -firestorm26c


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